


Détraquée

by Hystaracal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Basically the life and loves of Hermione Granger, Character Death, Character Growth, Deathly Hallows AU, Drama & Romance, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hermione Granger-centric, M/M, Pathos, Post-War, Pre-War, Vignettes, War, angst and attempts at humour, stuff and nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2018-11-12 14:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 210,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11163924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hystaracal/pseuds/Hystaracal
Summary: "All her growth was the conveying of a corpse of hope."(From 'The Rainbow', D.H. Lawrence)It was definitely the worst of times. Follow Hermione as she navigates through the quagmire: saving the world, getting top grades, falling in love, lust, and a whole lot of trouble; and comes out of it hopefully at least partially sane





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Testing.  
> This is a tentative venture into the intimidating world of fanfiction. Hope it isn't a total trainwreck. 
> 
> Lets get on with it.

 

She could see Pansy Parkinson standing a few feet away from the corner of her eye. Sneering. Of course. Defiantly, Hermione Granger pulled back her shoulders, chin up, looking at the empty track in front of her.  
Platform nine and three quarters was slowly filling up with students and parents, the low hum of conversation gradually escalating to a cacophony.

Hermione had reached early- very early in fact- sending her parents off as soon as she could. She didn’t want them to feel the heated glares and snide comments that they were sure to encounter had they waited with her. The climate in the wizarding world was deteriorating at an alarming pace. The geniality and wonder she had felt when she first embarked on her magical journey was fading into something sinister and unwelcoming.  
She took a fortifying breath, as her eyes fluttered shut. _Keep it together._  
She hated this constant feeling of dread now that Voldemort was much more than a distant storm cloud.

Pansy was still lingering at the edge of her vision, joined now by an immaculately coiffed Daphne Greengrass. They were both collectively sneering. Good grief, but Hermione was **_tired_**. She twisted the end of her frayed Genesis tshirt, one that had belonged to her dad, and she had… “borrowed” and magically shrunk after he made her listen to ‘Foxtrot’ (“Just you wait Hermione, you’re going to _lose your mind_ ”).  
The thought of her parents made something heavy and unpleasant crawl up her throat. Her eccentric dentist parents who were thrilled to bits with their clever little witchy daughter. Her dad with his fluffy grey hair and tattered jeans; outdoorsy and scruffy, maker of the world’s worst puns, the only dentist in the freaking country who’d make his patients listen to ‘Rock the Casbah’ while he rummaged around in their mouths.  
And her mum- who she was meant to be a spitting image of… slight, slender, and extraordinarily generous. Her mum who couldn’t cook for shit; the only person whose scope of literary references was wider than her own.  
  
Mum and dad… _Her_ mum and dad… Their lives in peril because of her…

She couldn’t breathe.

She barely registered the Hogwarts Express rolling in amid a cloud of purple smoke, a shrill whistle, a sudden draught….  
She was tired, and she couldn’t _breathe_ and….  
  
And an arm came and slung itself around her shoulders, as she was squeezed into a tall, hard frame. Hermione started, her head snapped up. Bright blue eyes looked fondly down at her from under strands of ruddy hair.  
“Ron!” she felt the tension slip away from her body as she leant into his embrace.  
“Hullo, Hermione,” he smiled impishly, seeming unwilling to let go of her, “I swear, you get smaller every time I see you. You’ve bloody gone and shrunk again, haven’t you?”  
She rolled her eyes at him, not even trying to hold back the smile that unfurled across her face.  
Ron turned her around and steered her towards his family, an oasis of warmth and ginger hair in a crowd of irrelevant bodies, away from her thoughts and away from stupid Pansy Parkinson.  
  
 She went about hugging them one by one- from Ron to Fred (“Well hey there…”) to George (“…beautiful...”) to Ginny (“…fucking Fleur, Hermione, I swear to Merlin I’m going to _scream_ …”) to Molly (“Goodness! You’re too thin, dear...”) to Arthur (“Don’t see your lovely folks around. Pity. Real pity…”), until finally she all but melted into one Harry Potter.  
God. She felt so selfish for letting herself drown in her woes back there. Harry had it far worse than she ever would. She pulled away to look up at him, his hair nearly as hopeless as hers, and saw that his splendid green eyes were clear and at ease for once.  
“Hermione. Hi.”  
“Harry. Hello.”  
He grinned at her and she felt her heart swell at the unrestrained happiness of that expression. Because to Harry, Hogwarts was home, the Weasleys and her were family, and in that moment she knew he felt that he was exactly where he wanted to be.  
“All good?”  
“Juuuust grand, girly.”  
But he did that ostentatious, shifty thing with his eyebrows – Harryspeak for “I’ll tell you later” – so she gave him an exaggerated wink in return. “Okay. Got it.”  
His grin expanded into a chuckle and Hermione couldn’t stop herself from hugging him again.

 

* * *

 

 

On the train ride Hermione heard about Horace Slughorn from Harry, OWL scores from Ron and Harry, the absolute horror/total dreamboat that was Fleur Delacour from Ginny/Ron, and then sat and listened while Harry presented a veritable thesis postulating – nay screamingly _declaring –_ that Draco Malfoy was a Death Eater. Ron and Ginny looked away uncomfortably while that went on. Harry was breathing heavily by the end of it, and the silence that followed was profound.  
“Er… I’ve got to go meet Dean…” Ginny blurted and scrambled out of the compartment.  
Hermione was tired again.  
“Harry,” she ventured, “Malfoy is sixteen years old, and I hardly think that-”  
Ron groaned, even as Harry burst out with a “As if age matters when it means having a man inside Hogwarts-”  
“He’s hardly a _man_ , Harry-“  
“Fucking semantics? Really, Hermione-“  
“-could he possibly accomplish with Dumbledore right here and-“  
“-plotting something… it’s _so obvious_ , I mean Ron and Ginny saw him threaten Borgin-“  
“-and furthermore… oh come ON, he was clearly bluffing! Malfoy has always been full of bravado and.. and… shite! Tell him, Ron!”  
Harry and Hermione both looked at Ron expectantly. Poor Ron looked agonized, his ears red and his brow puckered.  
“Um… well…”  
  
That was when a starry-eyed girl pushed into their compartment to tell Harry that he was being summoned by Professor Slughorn.  
Ron crumpled with relief. Hermione looked at him for a moment, her eyebrows arched, and then said, simply: “Why.”  
Ron let out a humorless titter, stretched out his arms and shrugged dramatically. “Sometimes Harry gives me a break from being the ever-irrational one.”  
Hermione laughed, and lightly shoved at his shoulder. He smiled down at her like he had at the station, the same soft fondness in his eyes as they travelled across her face. She felt her cheeks warm under his scrutiny, her heartbeat sped up, and her laughter petered out as she met his gaze. She wished he would say something… do something… something big and terribly meaningful, because her stomach was rolling with anticipation. She took in a shaky gulp of air, and that seemed to snap Ron out of well, whatever; he blinked rapidly, laughed nervously, and mumbled something about being hungry and bloody hell where’s the food trolley at.  
“Sucks to your ass-mar,” she retorted irritably.  
“What?”  
 She was so very tired.

 

* * *

  
 

Harry and Ginny returned with near identical looks of bemusement of their faces. Hermione regarded Professor Slughorn’s desperate social climbing with amusement at first, but it all evaporated when she saw the thinly veiled envy on Ron’s face. Oh _hell._ This was going to become an issue.  
She sighed.

 

* * *

  
 

The Great Hall was as glorious as ever: the sky a dusky blue, full of riotous clouds and nary a star, the students sat under a canopy of candles, and the air was thick with the smell of warm food. Harry was still fuming about Professor Snape’s appointment as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Ron was looking intensely focused as he fed himself at an extraordinary speed, and Hermione thought about Futurist paintings depicting motion, about bizarre Japanese cartoons, about William Makepeace Thackeray.  
She pushed her half-eaten plate away, and looked about her listlessly. Ginny was sitting next to Dean who had one arm looped around her, as he valiantly attempted to cut his steak with one hand. Seamus was attempting to flirt with Parvati. Parvati was attempting to dissolve into thin air to escape Seamus. Lavender was giggling at her friend’s predicament.  
“Bored, eh?” came a whisper from her left.  
She huffed a laugh and turned to look at Neville. “Just… tired.”  
He smiled ruefully at her. His once round face had matured and narrowed, but it retained that quintessentially Neville look of hesitance and innocence.    
“Did you read the latest piece in The New Journal of Herbology about the possibility of using Asphodel to slow down the growth cancerous tumors?”  
She gratefully, delightedly, jumped into that conversation.  
Long live Longbottom.

 

* * *

  
 

Hermione trudged towards the huge doors of the Great Hall, anxious to reach her bed and sleep. Her eyes felt hot, her head felt heavy.  She was positively _done._  
So of course she had to come face to face with Draco Malfoy right before the threshold. His mouth twisted with distaste the moment he saw her. Theodore Nott stood a little behind him, looking generally uninterested in any and every thing.  
Hermione was entirely in favour of avoiding confrontation, so she thought it prudent to stop walking and let the egomaniac pass first.  
But then-  
“Out of the way, mudblood.”  
Oh lord.  
Her exhaustion and exasperation mingled languidly. She looked at him for a moment, and then bowed her head. Her arms performed a series of graceful ports de bras, one arching by her side, the other gesturing to the door. Her leg drew an elegant circle on the floor before dipping behind her, and then she sank slowly, _utterly_ into a devastatingly theatrical curtsey.  
Silence. The throng of students around them had all fallen mum. Head still bent, she looked up at Malfoy through her eyelashes. He looked dumbstruck. Flabbergasted. His eyes were wide, lips frozen in a half-sneer. Hermione very nearly lost her balance in the face of his comical astonishment. It didn’t help one bit that behind him, Nott’s eyes were suddenly alive with glee, as he bit down on his lip.  
Behind her somebody snorted loudly. Then there was a giggle. Soon, the laughter was thunderous and all around. Hermione continued to watch Malfoy even as a small, crooked smile broke across her face. That seemed to snap him out of his stupor, and he stormed out of the hall, but not before muttering, “Stupid uppity bitch.”  
Nott beamed at her. Huh.

For the second time that day, she felt an arm snake around her shoulders. Harry pulled her along, laughing.  
“You strange creature,” he gasped into her hair.  
“That. Was. Brilliant!” Ginny danced around to her other side, and then there was Ron guffawing (“Did you see his face?!”), and Dean and Seamus and Luna and Neville and Justin and Ernie… they encircled her, faces shining with mirth and friendship, and Hermione’s weariness momentarily made way for contentment.

 

* * *

  
 

 

 


	2. Two

Hermione sat in her favourite corner of the Hogwarts library attempting to make sense of the day. It was late in the evening. The sun was just short of dipping below the horizon, and a tawny, pinkish light was filtering through the large window under which she was curled up in a fat and lumpy armchair, robes discarded, legs tucked under her bum, surrounded by open books that she just couldn’t focus on.  
“Professor” Slughorn was a buffoon. A pompous, ingratiating, frivolous fop who completely lacked the air of a convincing intellectuality.  
He’d fawned over _anyone_ he considered as having some social standing, much to the bitter dismay of Ron… and Draco Malfoy. Ha. Ron and Malfoy on the same side in any situation meant that the universe was truly bonkers. But then again… she’d never known two other people with such blatant chips on their shoulders…

She shook that thought off.  
A disgruntled Ron always pissed the hell out of her, Amortentia revelations be damned. She was annoyed enough without thinking about his bull-headed petulance.  
No. Tonight she was going to be annoyed with Harry.  
He’d always been a lazy scholar, and it had been alright when his marks reflected that. But now…  
Now he had that damned annotated textbook, and with Slughorn… with Slughorn… Slughorn _creaming his pants_ every time he was around… ugh.  
It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t jealous, and she didn’t begrudge him winning the Felix Felicis at all. If anyone needed luck, it was Harry. But she was angry. It was a principle thing.

Hermione sighed softly, and pulled her hair out of the sloppy bun at the back of her head. The thick and heavy mass tumbled down, and she massaged her scalp, before turning back to her books and parchment.  
She worked peacefully for ten minutes.

“Well, don’t you make a pretty picture.”  
Theodore Nott was leaning against the shelf in front of her, with a half-grin on his narrow face. It took Hermione an entire minute to reconcile the statement with the source of it. An entire minute after which she eloquently said, “huh?”  
Nott flashed a full shit-eating grin at her. “Good evening, Hermione.”  
He said it like a sharp but pleasant assertion. His voice was deep and Hermione winced as she thought of Hannibal Lector casually sitting in a cage.  
“What do you want, Nott?”  
“I just wanted to congratulate you. Last night was spectacular. It’s so rare to see Draco at a loss for words, you know.”  
“...”  
“And now _you’re_ speechless. This is really turning out to be a great term at old Hogwarts.”  
“Oh yes. Everything is just grand,” Hermione intoned, dryly.  
Nott laughed. “Well, you’re a snarky little thing, aren’t you?”  
“What do you want, Nott?” she repeated firmly.  
“I think we’re past using last names, Hermione…”  
She blinked at him. “Are you mad?” she asked quite seriously.  
Nott just laughed at her again, looking delighted. “What are you working on?”  
“….Er, ancient runes essay…” she mumbled uncertainly.  
“Excellent!” he quipped, “Just what I needed to get started on,” he said as he began pulling books out of his bag and placing them on the table next to her.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Ancient runes essay, Hermione! Didn’t I just say?”  
With that he sat on the armchair across from her, and began scribbling on a piece of parchment. Hermione watched him for a few seconds. God, why couldn’t things make sense for a little while? Nott looked up at her and winked, before returning to his work.  
_Ah well._ She thought, and turned back to her essay. _Goo goo g'joob._

Homework assignments were more important than unraveling Gordian Notts.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Hermione had thought potions lessons could only get better after they didn’t involve Snape. By the end of the week, Harry had been coronated by Slughorn.  Hermione’s bitterness was insuppressible. At least this time, Ron seemed to share her sentiments.  
She was just beginning to work her way into a gloriously unhinged rant, when Harry said he was going for his first private lesson with Professor Dumbledore. And just like that, her anger evaporated.

It was exasperating really, how she found it impossible to stay mad at Harry.

She watched him leave the common room, her heart heavy, and then leaned her head against the back of the sofa, shutting her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter, you know.”  
She frowned, her eyes still closed.  
Ron continued: “I mean… Harry beating you. It’s just marks and all. Doesn’t mean shit. You know… that is to say… it’s meaningless, yeah…?” he was fumbling, “What I _mean_ is… you’re still the most brilliant person in the world. Nothing can change that.”  
 Hermione turned her head and looked at Ron. He was staring down at his hands, his face red. She felt warmed to the core of her soul. Her pulse stuttered. She couldn’t seem to say a word.  
Instead she tenderly took his large hand in hers and squeezed it. When he looked at her, her smile was full and wide. She could feel her eyes welling up. It was almost too much.

And _this_ was why she was so lost when it came to Ron Weasley. For all the grief he gave her, wrecking her blood pressure levels, he also made her feel elated in ways she never thought possible.  
He was smiling back at her now. Her stomach twisted. She dropped her head on his shoulder, his hand still clasped in hers, and they sat looking into the common room fire.

Hermione felt that it had nothing on the smouldering embers inside of her.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Herbology with Hufflepuffs.  
Helpful Hufflepuffs.  
Herby Herbology with helpful Hufflepuffs.  
Humble Hermione has herby Herbology with helpful Hufflepuffs.  
  
She didn’t realise she had been muttering out loud until Neville and Harry began sniggering on both sides of her.  
She blushed and stared determinedly at the clump of verdure in front of her.  
“Huffy Hermione’s head hangs in humiliation,” said Harry.  
“Humiliated Hermione hisses hysterically at humorous Harry,” said Neville.  
“Harrowed Hermione hazardously hexes two humungous heedless halfwits,” she countered.  
“Oooooooh!” they chanted in unison.  
Hermione swallowed her giggle and elbowed their ribs simultaneously.

Professor McGonagall swept into the greenhouse. She looked strained in a way Hermione hadn’t seen in a long time. She walked over to Professor Sprout and said something into her ear that caused the latter to gasp in horror and drop her watering can.  
Professor McGonagall looked exceedingly unimpressed at the exhibition. She turned around and called out, “Miss Abbott. Could you please pack up your things and come with me?”  
Hannah looked confused, but complied. Her eyes darted to Professor Sprout, whose face was flushed and distraught, and her own expression morphed to fear.  
“What... what’s going on?”  
“Just come along, Miss Abbott,” Professor McGonagall said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.

When the two had exited, Professor Sprout let out a sob.  
“Professor...?” Ernie Macmillan asked, hesitantly.  
“Oh _Merlin. That poor girl,_ ” Professor Sprout wailed. Everybody looked about uncomfortably as she took a fortifying breath. “Her mother... she’s been murdered.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later that night, Hermione broke away from the common room, and went for a solitary walk. She had felt Harry’s eyes on her all day, and they were full of pain and sympathy. She couldn’t handle that anymore.  
She walked up to the astronomy tower in a daze. All her worst nightmares, the bleak consequences of her life, choices, and situation were churning like a whirlpool in her head. Grasping the railing, looking out into the night, she took in a lungful of cold air.  
Hannah’s muggle mother had been murdered by Death Eaters, presumably for having the gall to sully the lineage of one of the sacred twenty-eight.  
Did they dance around her broken body? Did they cackle with glee as they spilt her dirty, common blood? Hermione shuddered once, and never stopped.  
If Hannah’s mother was a target, her own mother was a prize. Filthy muggle mother of filthy mudblood Hermione Granger, best friend of the chosen one. They’d make a damn carnival out of it.  
Fuck. _Oh fuck._  
She didn’t know what to do. The terror and helplessness had paralysed her mind.  
A gust of wind...  Another shudder...  
And Hermione hunched her shoulders and cried. Her head dipped until it was resting against her white knuckles gripping at the railing. She cried without restraint, the force of her dread was crushing her.

When her sobs subsided, she couldn’t tell how long they had overwhelmed her for. Seconds? Hours? The night looked the same; the moon was still nestled poetically between two branches of the whomping willow.  
Then she heard a soft rustle behind her. Startled, she spun around, and there was nothing there. Still she felt a bit uneasy, as her eyes scanned the length and breadth of the tower.

Nothing.

She backed out of the tower, eyes narrowed and darting from side to side.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Her eyes were swollen the next morning.  
“Wow, Hermione, you look awful!”  
It was too early for Lavender Brown to be a thing.  
“Hmm,” she said, twisting her hair into a knot at her nape.  
“You should do something about that. You’re around Harry Potter and _Ronald Weasley_ all day; isn’t that enough incentive to want to look your best, like, all the time?”  
Hermione looked at Lavender then. She was well polished as always, smiling condescendingly at her.  
“Well, I’ll see you around!” she sang as she swept out of their dorm.

Hermione waited for her footsteps to recede before casting a soft glamour over her eyes.  
There. That ought to appease _Ronald Weasley._

She was scowling as she went down for breakfast.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Right. So she may have gushed over Harry’s attributes a bit too much to get a rise out of Ron. She was pleased, and at the same time peeved by how easy it was to instigate his insecurities. She supposed she was being more than a little unfair, considering the quidditch trials were that morning, and Ron was overtly jittery.  
Since she had endured that, AND Harry’s determination to keep his ghastly potion’s book, AND a debilitating perusal of the _Daily Profit_ over breakfast, Hermione felt murderous when Lavender gave Ron a coquettish smile as they made their way out onto the quidditch pitch. The come-hither smile altered into a sly grin aimed directly at Hermione once Ron had looked away.

Hermione stomped off towards the stands without a word.

She watched impassively as the trials commenced. Quidditch was... alright, she supposed. She’d grown up pretending to take Hampstead FC seriously, for her dad. Quidditch was a lot easier to get sucked into.

A large, blond bloke came and sat three seats away from her. He looked about as put off as she felt. Feeling her eyes on him, he glanced at her... looked away... and snapped his head right back. With a smarmy sort of smirk and without a preamble, he said, “Cormac McLaggen, keeper.”  
“Hello. I’m Hermione Gra-“  
“Granger. Yeah, I know. Everybody knows who you are, doll.”  
They both turned to the pitch at the sound of Harry’s frustrated yelling as he announced his final (“yes that’s fucking _final_!”) decision regarding the chasers.  
“Ha. That Potter is such a pushover. I’d have hexed those little cunts. Ha ha ha. Oh and look... all his chasers are birds! Not bad lookin’ ones too. Oho. That Ginny Weasley’s a total slag, I hear. So your boy Potter’s _that_ sort, eh? Why didn’t you try out, doll? You’re well prettier than that lot,” McLaggen grinned cockily at her. She glared back furiously.  
“Feisty! Tell you what, Granger... let me finish this trial shite – it’s going to be a fucking breeze for me – and then I’ll take you out this weekend, yeah? Show you a good time. Eh, doll?”  
“No, thank you,” she gritted out.  
“Playing hard to get? Ha ha. Cute. Alright. Have it your way. I’ll play along. Oh _doll_. Ha! Look at that skinny little wanker thinking he can whack a bludger – oh – ah. Got lucky, the fucking garden gnome. Ha ha...”

He wouldn’t stop. Hermione thought the only person _this_ persistently obnoxious was Draco Malfoy.  
Oh, and Zacharias Smith.

By the time he finally left for his try-out, Hermione’s temples were throbbing. _Jesus fuck._  
She watched the loathsome chauvinist save four goals in a row with acute displeasure, and something in her snapped. Before she fully registered what she had done, McLaggen was grimacing at his supposed mistake.

 

When Ron grinned at her after his triumph, his eyes were bluer than the Mediterranean Sea.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Ron scowled at her after Slughorn invited her to his “little soiree”, she couldn’t care less about the colour of his stupid little eyes.  
When they shifted to watch Lavender playing with locks of her silken hair, Hermione just didn’t have it in her to feel dispirited.  
Harry was passionately engaged in constructing his ‘Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater’ hypothesis.

She was actually looking forwarding to attending the party just to escape those two nutters.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione decided that wine was one of mankind’s greatest inventions.

She was on her third glass, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. McLaggen and Slughorn were wrapped up in a frivolous conversation about holiday destinations. Hermione had tuned out long ago.

Across from her Blaise Zabini was sullenly murdering his potatoes. Neville, having the misfortune of sitting next to him, was visible tense. Hermione caught his eye, and gave him a lazy smile.

“Neville is going to wet himself,” Hermione whispered to Ginny, who was seated next to her, and on her _fourth_ glass of wine.  
Ginny chuckled breathlessly. “And then Zabini will have to look more disgusted than he already does, and that I _really_ would love to see...”  
“I don’t know. He looks like he’s already reached super-saturation point. I don’t think it’s possible to look _more_ disgusted...”  
Zabini looked up from his spud-massacre then. Right at them.  
“Oh Merlin!” Ginny squealed, “That’s it! THAT’S PEAK DISGUST.”

Hermione bit down on her lip and dug her toes into the soles of her shoes to keep from laughing out loud.

* * *

 


	3. Three

 

Apparently, saying that you thought testing out unknown handwritten spells on your friends was irresponsible and _stupid_ made you an inexorable stick-in-the-mud.  
Harry and Ron left for Hogsmeade, uncaring that she refused to go along.

Hermione strolled along an empty passage, stopping before a tall window. The weather outside was abominable. She imagined the boys stuck in the middle of a sleety street, iced over from head to toe, their skin a bright bright blue.  
Then their limbs began to fall off.  
  
She was doomed to feel exhausted forever.  
What would it take for Harry to just listen to her? For Ron to stop taking her for granted?  
_My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my senses, as though of...._

“Hermione Granger.”

Why did disembodied voices and noises insist on jarring her out of pensive moods?

It was Padma Patil this time, who scarcely ever spoke to her. Hermione’s immediate curiosity took a bit of the edge off her irritation.

“Yes?”  
She looked grave as she asked, “Can you tell me how I have suddenly gone from having the third highest score in potions, to the _fourth_? And more importantly, how the hell is HARRY POTTER sitting in the top slot?”  
“Ah.”  
Hermione’s uncertainty lasted for barely half a moment before she said, “Harry’s been working really hard lately.”  
Yup. Loyalty to Potter above everything; no matter how badly she wanted to throw both him and his book into a vat of rancid flobberworm mucus.  
  
“Oh please,” said Padma, “ _Working really hard_? Enough to turn into a genius overnight? And why is his _hard work_ only showing results in one class?”  
Hermione shrugged helplessly.  
“Listen, Hermione. I know this is all to do with Slughorn’s favouritism. I get that Harry’s your best friend, but this ISN’T FAIR – ” She stood up straight, and locked her hands behind her back – “I have a proposition for you.”  
Padma looked like she was standing in a boardroom before a dozen ruthless business tycoons, rather than in a dingy corridor with her frumpy classmate.  
“Go on...” Hermione ventured.  
“We pool our resources for the term end project. We’ll prepare two impeccably researched papers with flawlessly brewed potions, submit one each, get back our pride and position, and call it a day.”  
She spoke in a brisk and offhand manner. Hermione smiled, and extended her hand out wordlessly. Padma grasped it with her own.  
“Library? After dinner?”  
“Affirmative.”

* * *

 

“...Then she rose straight up into the air like a fucking archangel, and started _screaming_ like she was in agony. Ron, Leanne, and I pulled her down, but she still wouldn’t stop screaming... I ran; found Hagrid...got to McGonagall... They’ve taken her to Mungo’s... ” Harry’s entire body was thrumming with agitation. He was speaking way too fast.  
“It was bloody terrifying,” Ron clarified, helpfully.

Hermione felt sick.  
“An opal necklace, you say?” she asked.  
“Yeah,” Harry rushed out, “The one on display at Borgin and Burkes. Now we have to figure out how Malfoy managed to get it past Filch’s sensors.”  
Ron’s gaze shifted to the ceiling in exasperation. But he held his tongue in an uncharacteristic show of restraint.  
Hermione didn’t feel quite as self-possessed at that point.  
“Good grief. _Harry_.”  
“Oh get over yourself, Hermione!” He lashed out at her, glaring with unsettling acrimony, “You don’t always know everything, alright? I’m right. I KNOW I’M RIGHT. It has to be him. We _heard him_ asking that slimeball in the shop to put it on hold!”  
“You don’t know that he was talking about the necklace!”  
“ _Where_ is all this faith in bloody buggering Draco Malfoy coming from?”  
“It isn’t faith in _him_ , Harry! It’s faith in his inability to pull something like this off...”  
“Yeah, because it was _such_ a smooth operation. Not a colossal fuck up AT ALL-”  
Ron tried to play pacifist- “Er, Harry, mate...”  
“No. Ron, no. Shut up. Why don’t _you_ see it? You know exactly what a sick and twisted fucker Malfoy is. And you saw him show his dark mark to Borgin!”  
“Well, we didn’t actually see that...”  
“Oh, fuck OFF. Fine. You know what... FINE. I’ll be vindicated soon enough!” He looked at Hermione then. His face was still a mask of severe hostility. He pointed at her, “Don’t think I’ll be above telling you I told you so when shit hits the fan. I’ll be saying it for the _rest of your life._ ”

With that, he stormed off to his dormitory, before Hermione could bite back by telling him how she hadn’t said “I told you so” to _him_ regarding the debacle in the Ministry last year.  
Which she wouldn’t have actually said. Of course not.

Ron and Hermione couldn’t look at each other in the ringing silence Harry left in his wake.  
“I’m going to the library,” she said shakily.  
“Now?!”  
“Yes. Now _._ ”  
“Hermione...”

She left. She needed more than anything to get away from Ron’s uncertain cerulean gaze. He would have sat with her, had she stayed. But they would both have known that he would rather have gone up to placate Harry.  
Ron found it much easier to say unpleasant things about her than his other best friend.

Right now, she _needed_ to be surrounded by books and quietude. Padma would be there. Brisk and pragmatic Padma would help her lose herself in cerebral pursuits.  
  
She let her mind drift to the nebulous idea that she had been toying with before she found out about Katie’s ordeal. She thought about anaesthesia and ketamine, how they might be combined with certain elements of the revive potion to render a person temporarily immune to pain.  
Maybe it could decrease the severity of the cruciatus curse...?

Hermione inhaled deeply once she had walked into her safe haven.  
She spotted the back of Padma’s head sequestered in quiet corner. She’d braided her long, glossy black hair; the thick dark rope contrasted startlingly against the bright white of her shirt.  
  
“Hi, Padma. Let’s get started.”

* * *

  
 

Hermione decided to venture down alone for breakfast the next morning. She was about halfway across the common room when she felt someone fist the back of her cloak to stop her.  
She spun around, and there stood Harry Potter with his face twisted in discomfort. He was looking at a distant corner over the top of her head, unable to meet her eyes.  
His mouth opened.  
Then closed.  
He rolled his eyes at himself, before _finally_ looking down at her.

By this point Hermione was smiling helplessly.  
_Curse you, Harry Potter.  
_ He gazed at her plaintively; a little stricken, a little pleading.

 Hermione sighed heavily... and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.  
“I don’t deserve this, you know...” he muttered quietly, as he hugged her back.  
_Curse you, you poor love-starved, awful, wonderful boy._

* * *

 

 

  
That evening Hermione surveyed the common room dolefully, distractedly.

Harry had just left for another lesson with Professor Dumbledore. He’d been entertainingly disgruntled for the past hour, as he’d watched Ginny and Dean curled up by the fireplace, giggling at Arnold the pygmy puff. She should have known Ginny would put her advice to practice so excellently.  
  
They were still coiled together, looking warm and happy.

She glanced at Ron, who was sitting on the floor, leaning against an arm of the sofa, so he wouldn’t have to look at Ginny and Dean.  
He’d decided that the sight of Lavender Brown painting her nails was a far more pleasant one.

Hermione shot up and stalked towards the portrait hole.  
“Where-“  
“Professor Slughorn’s...”  
A scathing snort. “Of course.”

Padma wouldn’t be getting together with her that evening. She had told her distractedly after their Arithmancy class that she had to attend a meeting of her ‘Nocturnal Numerology’ club.  
The Ravenclaws had clubs for _everything_ , apparently. Hermione wondered idly, as she strolled down the passage leading to the dungeons, what her life would have been like, had she been sorted into that house. Undoubtedly, she’d have been a part of as many study groups as possible. She thought jealously about the learning, the conversations, the scintillating exchange of ideas that she had missed out on.  
The year before, Terry Boot had told her on numerous occasions that she belonged in their (his) house. He’d said it while running his hands through his shaggy brown hair.  
Hm.  
What if she were to take her own advice? What if she went out with Terry Boot? What if she drank butterbeer sitting across from him, held his hand, let him run that same hand through _her_ unruly locks... let him cup her face, and kiss her mouth?  
Would Ron be entertainingly disgruntled? Could she count on him to be spurred into action, and to god damn at long last get his act together?

Ha. She stopped walking abruptly.  
She knew that would never happen. If the Krum episode taught her anything, it was that jealousy made Ron an ugly person. He would mistreat her atrociously until she’d ditch her suitor, and then he’d expect everything to go back to status quo seamlessly. The frustration she felt at the pit of her stomach surged through her and tore out of her throat:

“ ** _Gah!_** ”

“Easy there, Hermione.”  
“...Nott?!”  
Him again?  
“Theo, Hermione. I told you to call me Theo.”  
She just looked at him.  
“Go on. Call me Theo.”  
They stared at each other, as they leant against opposite walls of the narrow corridor. He lowered his head and fixed a sharp look upon her.  
“ _Say it_ ,” he crooned in a faux-threatening tone.  
Hermione couldn’t help but smirk.  
“Theo.”  
He faked a shudder. “Ooooh. My name on your lips sets me on _fire_.”  
She arched an eyebrow at him. He smiled.  
He was exceedingly slender and narrow. Hermione imagined that his hips where as slim as her own, though he stood at least a head taller. Light brown hair, blue eyes that were about three shades darker than Ron’s; she had to admit that he was striking.  
“Now what?” she asked him with affected amiability.  
Nott—er, _Theo_ —shrugged indolently.  
“I was headed to the library. I would love it if you’d join me for a dazzlingly intellectual _tête_ - _à_ - _tête_ _.”_  
His smile was guileless and full. What even _was_ Theo Nott? A Wildean dandy come to life?  
“Okay.”  
WHAT?! Oh dear, she was smiling back.

“Ah, Theo... There you are! I was just...”  
  
Yes! Why not! Throw Draco Malfoy into the mix too! Good one, providence!  
Hermione was feeling a tad deranged.

Malfoy stopped short when he spotted her.  
“What the fuck?” He looked dumbfounded.  
Hermione realised that she rather liked being the cause of his unsettlement. Theo was thinking along the same lines –  
“You’ve done it again, Hermione! You’ve gone and stunned the unflappable Malfoy. See, _this_ is why I like you so much...”  
“Okay, seriously. What the fuck? Theo, if you’re having some kind of perverted liaison with a mudblood, you should know that - ”  
“Shut your mouth, Draco. That is not how one speaks in civilised company.”  
Malfoy looked aghast.  
Theo grinned at Hermione after taking in his expression. “Oh this is fun. I can see why you keep doing it.”  
And Hermione- god help her- Hermione giggled.  
Malfoy’s head snapped sharply towards her. All traces of astonishment wiped clean from his face, he regarded her with abject antipathy. In the torchlight, his nearly translucent eyes seemed to be burning with fire and brimstone.  
“I’ll see you in the common room, Theo.”  
His tone conveyed much more than his words. He spoke them at Hermione; slow, loaded, and guttural.  
It was a threat, an insult, and a challenge.

Theo whistled softly once Malfoy had stormed off.  
“Intense, isn’t he?” he said, admiringly.  
“Quite.” Hermione’s admiration was more obviously sardonic.  
“Well. Looks like our illicit rendezvous among ancient tomes is off.”  
“Another night then. I’ll be better prepared. I’ll even wear nice underwear.”  
OH GOD.  
Oh fucking god. What on _earth_ possessed her to say that?

Theo looked positively radiant.  
“Oh, Hermione. I do look forward to it.”

And with a wink and a smile, he left.

* * *

_  
_ Barely an hour ago, she had been envisioning a life where she’d be a part of high-calibre research clubs. Now she realised she had inadvertently become a part of something called the _Slug_ club. She didn’t know which inspired soul had come up with the moniker, but Slughorn was charmed.

“Cormack, my boy,” he was slurring slightly, “You _must_ remind me to introduce you and your wonderful uncle to the Turkish ambassador someday! He has some fascinating new business ventures involving flying carpets, and a modification that makes them considerably less illegal...”

McLaggen was smirking stupidly.  
Ginny was flapping around Gwenog Jones like a flamingo in heat.

Well. She had a goblet full of wine. It was time to measure out her life with it.

* * *

 


	4. Four

 

Ron had blushed and fussed around her all day. She had thought the way she’d indirectly asked him to Slughorn’s Christmas party while he was in the middle of an unholy snit had been an absolute trainwreck; but then Ron had moved past his agitation and begun treating her with a kind of flattering consideration that left Hermione grinning like a loon.  
Harry had been alternating between rolling his eyes, stifling a smirk, and looking like he wished he was somewhere far far away from the both of them.  
  
She was _still_ grinning like a loon that night when she left to meet Padma in the library.

Hermione was **happy**.  
So very happy.  
So what if Ron could be an arse sometimes? She didn’t care about the past few days.  
Didn’t care if Monday’s blue. Tuesday’s grey and Wednesday too.  
_Thursday I don’t care about you... it’s Friday, I’m in love._

She was humming when Padma found her in their designated corner. The Ravenclaw girl just raised an eyebrow at her that clearly implied, ‘I’m not going to ask, but do shut up.’  
Hermione grinned at her. Like a loon.

They worked well together. It was invigorating, researching with someone who could keep up with her thought process. They were like a well-oiled machine, passing books, notes, and ideas across the table.  
Hours later, Padma gasped.  
“Oh! Hermione! It’s nearly 2 am!”  
“What? Oh my... How did Madam Pince not throw us out?”  
“No idea,” a bemused Padma said as she packed up her belongings.

Once they’d crept out into the corridor, Hermione whispered, “Will you be alright? With Filch, I mean...”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Padma murmured back with a smug smile, “You Gryffindors aren’t the only ones skilled at rule breaking.”  
They parted after exchanging a friendly nod.

 

Hermione was on the fifth floor when she spotted light shining out through the gaps surrounding the door of the music room, and the silhouette of a girl sitting on the floor outside it.  
Curious, she made her way to the figure.  
“Luna?” she whispered, squatting down next to her.  
Luna was wearing a fuzzy bright purple robe over light blue pajamas that were dotted with what looked like a disastrous amalgamation of a crocodile and a wombat.  
“Shh,” she said in her mellow voice, “Listen.”  
She handed Hermione the end of an extendable ear, which ran on to slip under the crack of the door. Hermione put the flesh coloured string to her ear, and was suddenly blown away by the beautiful tinkling of piano keys.

It was Bach’s prelude.  
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the poignant melody of the piece washed over her. Whoever it was playing the piece was doing it justice.  
Eyes shut, Hermione let the music wrap around her like a glowing aura. The moment was brief but transcendental, and she felt _heavy_ with emotion.  
Luna gripped her wrist and squeezed; an all-too-knowing smile on her face.  
“Who... who _is_ that?” Hermione asked her breathlessly.

“Someone who would _not_ be happy to see you, Hermione.”

Both girls started at the voice that came from behind them.  
  
Theodore Nott:  
_Noun;_ The personification of an unexpected muscle spasm.  
  
She groaned. “Why are you _everywhere_?”

“ _Moi_?!” he said, affronted, “Well _excuse me_! I was just coming to check on my temperamental best friend – he’s prone to poetic bouts of night-time brooding... you know, scowling at the stars from the astronomy tower, sighing _deeply_ while staring at the moonlight dance on the rippling waves of the lake, or like now, moping over the baby grand in there – “ he gestured to the music room with his chin, before continuing, “That sort of thing. And who do I find crouched outside? You, Hermione. You. Why are _you_ everywhere?”  
He smiled sweetly at her, rambling on, “I think you’ve put a tracking charm on me. I don’t blame you. But trust me, sweetheart, you don’t have to resort to such desperate tactics. I’ll happily meet you anytime, anywhere. And incidentally...”

  
“Dried wormwood in vinegar,” Luna cut him off.  
Theo looked at her like he had only just noticed her presence.  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
“Dried wormwood in vinegar. Let it sit overnight, and then strain the infusion and pour it into your ears.”  
“Now why would I do that?” Theo’s eyes flickered to Hermione in confusion.  
“You obviously have the most dreadful infestation of Blathergouts. They’re like brain parasites that cause people to prattle on endlessly and often ridiculously. I’m sure it’s been quite traumatic for you.”  
  
Hermione slapped her palm over her mouth to contain her laughter. Theo looked aghast.  
“I’m sorry... _what_?”  
“Oh yes. They sometimes interfere with a person’s basic comprehension, too. You poor thing.”  
With that, Luna wandered off, quickly swallowed by the shadows in the dimly lit hallway.

The expression on Theo’s face wasn’t making it easy for Hermione to choke back her laughter.  
“They’re not real, yeah? Blatherwhazzits?”  
“Oh, I don’t know, Theo. Luna certainly described your symptoms most accurately.”  
“Ha. Ha.”  
He sneered at her, but it promptly morphed into a smile, one which Hermione returned almost shyly.

Then his words from earlier registered.  
“Hold on,” she frowned, “Best friend... is that _Malfoy_ in there?”  
Hermione was astonished as Theo beamed and nodded.  
“Surprised?” he ventured.  
“I... well... yes...” she stammered, “He plays wonderfully.”  
Theo shrugged, “He had to have _some_ redeeming qualities. Statistically, I mean.”  
“Right. Of course.” Hermione was blinking rather rapidly.

“Hey. Hermione.”  
She jumped slightly when she realised how close he had gotten. He was looking down at her kindly; his voice was like a caress.  
“Yes?”  
“I think you should leave before he comes out.”  
“Yes. Yeah. Good idea. Indeed.”  
She was tremendously flustered, and suddenly all she could think about was the _stupid_ underwear comment she had blurted out the last time they had run into each other.  
She cringed internally.

   
“Goodnight, Hermione.”  
“Yeah. Goodnight.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

She was still cringing when she woke up the next morning.

At breakfast, she made it a point to sit with her back to the Slytherin table, lest she make eye-contact with Theo, or have the chance to examine Malfoy, who suddenly had all this _depth_ he had no business possessing.  
The Gryffindor quidditch team, now including Dean, was huddled around Harry. Hermione anticipated a spot of tension arising in the face of this new dynamic.

The squad went off for practice. Left on her own, Hermione ambulated down the viaduct courtyard, thinking about taking advantage of the sunny day and getting a few peaceful hours of reading done by the lake.  
Thoughts flashed and disappeared speedily in her head like a disjointed flip book. She was vaguely aware of the group of Hufflepuffs in front of her- Ernie, Susan, Megan, and Roger, among others.

Ernie was in his natural pontificating pose.  
“...and British muggles were paragons of civilisation! Most muggles were a bit savage, see; and the brave men of Dear Old Blighty took it upon themselves to reform and enlighten the heathens. They conquered most of the world, and formed the British Empire, which is said to be the _greatest_ the muggle world had ever seen.”

  
At Hermione’s derisive snort, they all spun around to face her.  
“Wherever did you hear that, Ernie?” she asked in a befuddled manner.  
“Muggle studies lesson. Rather fascinating, muggle history; quite as riveting as our own.”  
“Ernie,” she said forcefully, “Everything you said is rubbish. A heap of jingoism and propaganda. The British empire was atrocious, devastating its colonies economically and socially...”  
“That is not at all what it says in our books,” muttered Susan, frowning.  
“And moreover, other kingdoms and empires were _not_ savage. They were abounding with culture and learning, and just because they didn’t align with the British post-Christianity dogma, they were _awfully_ subjugated,” Hermione finished shrilly.  
Ernie looked very unsure: “But the Brits were... honourable men...”  
“Pfff. _So are they all, all honourable men_ ,” she recited contemptuously.

*

 

She pulled out her beloved copy of _Hogwarts,A History_ , once she had settled comfortably on a grassy patch by the lake. From between its pages, she pulled out a creased and slightly worn piece of parchment.

  
‘A COMPREHENSIVE TO-DO LIST IN SERVICE OF HERMIONE GRANGER’S AGENDA TO BETTER THE WITCHING AND WIZARDING WORLD.’  
 She smiled down fondly at the words she had carefully printed as an ambitious and over-zealous eleven year old.

1\. Introduce the magical community to muggle music.  
2\. Find a way to successfully integrate muggle technology with magic (first cause- electricity).  
3\. Encourage the incorporation of muggle medicinal practices in magical healing.  
4\. Demolish the appalling and deep-rooted social evil of pureblood ideology by enforcing strict legislation that outlaws ANY and ALL forms of discrimination.  
5\. Launch anti-prejudice camps to undo centuries of prejudice and indoctrination.  
6\. Convince the magical community that regency era societal norms are grossly outdated.  
7\. Prepare a robust memorandum that clearly outlines the rights of misunderstood magical creatures.  
8\. Establish a sanctioned union for House Elves, and make the magical community aware of the concept of labour rights.  
9\. ~~Introduce anti-slander laws~~ Free press above all, no matter how vile the publication.  
10\. Ensure that centres of education remain entirely independent and untouched by bureaucratic influence.

Yes, some might say she was preposterously, laughably over-ambitious.

Picking up her black gel pen (yes, _pen_ ) she added,  
11\. THOROUGHLY revise, redraft, and revamp the Muggle Studies curriculum across all magical institutions of learning.

There.

Hermione put away her list and her book, shed her robes, loosened her tie, and lay down on the soft grass.  
The sky was a lovely shade of light azure littered with fluffy white clouds. The warm air was being balanced perfectly by frequent rushes of cool breeze. Hermione looked up at the broad leafy canopy that covered the top half of her vision. It was a network of emerald and gold flashes as gusts of wind rustled by.  
She closed her eyes, absorbing the sound. There was something enticing about it – something mystical and calming, something deliberate and soothing – a rain stick in the hands of a Shaman in a trance.

Hermione tossed her arms above her head, and then arched her back off the ground, pressing her feet into the soil until she felt the all-too satisfying burn of her spine being utterly stretched.

She collapsed after a few seconds, letting out a contented sigh. Blinking dreamily, she watched the clouds drift across the arc of blue above, looking like giant floating cities with elaborate domes and spires; heavy and solid... but really just clusters of vapour, glorified air, _full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.  
_

 

* * *

 

Ever since she was of schooling age, Hermione had had to contend with the scorn of her peers. She was used to it by this point; a healthy mix of arrogance, indifference, and sangfroid kept her from crumbling under the weight of their disregard.

But all that composure went to shit when Ron was involved. So when he _completely out of the blue_ starts lashing out at her _relentlessly_ , she folds and stalks off to bed without a backward glance.

In the dormitory, Parvati was brushing her beautiful sleek tresses, while Lavender was draped decorously on the window seat flipping through some mindless magazine.  
Hermione flopped down on her bed and pressed the heels of her palms onto her eyes that felt precariously hot.

“This sounds fun,” Lavender spoke up, “According to Greta Phyllis, love expert, it’s helpful to make a checklist of qualities that you’re looking for in a man, so that it becomes easier to pick out who you should be with.”  
“Obviously,” Parvati replied, “I made my list _years_ ago. What do you think, Hermione?”

Hermione pulled up her torso and rested on her elbows to look across at the idle twits.  
“I don’t know. That makes sense only if you assume that there are masses of men striving to be with you.”  
“Oh Hermione,” said Lavender, waspishly, “I’m sure _some_ boys like you.”  
Parvati giggled fervently.

“Come on,” she said after she had recovered, “tell us what you’re looking for!”  
“Who says I’m looking for anything? I’ve too much on my plate as it is.”  
“Pish Posh,” Lavender scoffed, “ _Try_ not to sound like an old maid for once. I for one want a man with a sense of humour. It’s soooo important to laugh, you know? He has to be handsome of course – (“of course” broke in Hermione disdainfully, and Parvati ardently) – and tall. I do like them tall. Perhaps... with... red hair...”  
  
Lavender looked challengingly at Hermione, whose blood boiled. She curled her hands into fists and bit down on her tongue.  
  
Parvati gushed, “That’s such a good list, Lav! Make him tall, dark, and handsome for me. And I’d like for him to have proper respect for the refined art of Divination...”

Hermione wondered how this creature was related to someone as smart and practical as Padma. Though their features were near-identical, they were shrouded by an air so completely different from each other, that Hermione would’ve been able to tell them apart in seconds.

“Your turn, Hermione; go on, humour us.”  
  
Hermione sighed, and fell back down on her bed.  
When she spoke, her voice was small. She suddenly felt defeated enough to search within herself and expose something true and vulnerable to these awful, air-headed girls who shamelessly laughed at her all the time.  
“I suppose the most important thing is intellectual compatibility. I’d want him to be as motivated and proficient as I am, so that my thoughts are complimented and challenged. I’d want him to be ruthless in the pursuit of knowledge, but compassionate in the face of adversity. I’d want him to be driven and relentless, but then to chuck it all for a moment of tranquillity... only to... to... _arise and unbuild it again_. I’d want him to spare me no favours, but to stun me with kindness. I’d want him to bite back every time I’d attack, but then to say something ridiculous and flush out all the vitriol. Yes... it is important to laugh. He’d laugh. We’d laugh. He’d have wickedly funny insights into things that he’d whisper in my ear like it’s a secret between the two of us.”

“By _Godric_!” Lavender tittered, “You really let it all out.”  
Parvati was giggling again, “I hate to break it to you Hermione, but you’re probably going to be alone forever.”  
“Honestly! That’s not a _list_. I don’t even know what that was. You’re going to have to build your own man!”  
They laughingly moved on to another article.

Hermione let the drapes around her bed fall, and curled up against a pillow. She hadn’t expected anything more sophisticated from those two, but she felt more at ease than she had when she stormed into the dorm.  
Whatever else her ludicrous bit of word-vomit meant, it was clear that the person she had described was _not_ Ron.  
  
And yet... _Yet_.

 

It had to be Ron.

 

* * *

 


	5. Five

 

* * *

 

 

They were in dank and chilly cave, with only a torch to illuminate the yawning darkness around them. Their steps were cautious and wary; a monotonous and unsettling hum disturbed the airwaves around them.  
Indie had a tight grip on her elbow, muttering something about her being the cause of his inevitably early demise. Hermione rolled her eyes but grudgingly allowed it.  
  
Or perhaps not all that grudgingly.

Ten minutes (and six and a half whispered arguments) later, they arrived in a roomy vault of some sort. It was completely closed in, save for a thin shaft of light that speared through a gap in the ceiling, and fell directly on a pedestal in the centre. They approached it... slowly.  
A red sandstone tablet – roughly the size of a tea tray – sat with compelling authority on the plinth. It was engraved from corner to corner with strange and archaic looking symbols that glimmered slightly like they were once coated in gold.

Indie squinted at them, tipping back this fedora carelessly.  
“What’s this then? Ancient Celtic ideography?”  
“Leave it to me, Doctor Jones,” Hermione said in a subtly coquettish manner.  
Indie smirked at her, his fingers trailing down the length of her arm...

 

“...Ancient runes again...?”

 

Hermione was unceremoniously sucked out of the vault, and she zoomed through dimensions in a dizzying manner, until she was spat out into a straight-backed wooden chair in the Hogwarts library.

 Her dashing, roguish, adventurer/archaeologist companion was replaced by a too-skinny Slytherin in boring, baggy black robes.  
She blinked at Theo resentfully. He raised his eyebrows.  
“What?” he asked defensively.  
“Nothing,” she shook her head, “You broke my train of thought, is all.”

Pansy Parkinson came strolling along and stopped next to Theo. She scowled deeply, scrunching her upturned nose in an unflattering manner.  
“Let’s go to the other end of the Library, Theo,” she spat, “It smells like mudblood here.”  
“Shut up, Pansy,” Theo snapped, while Hermione glowered.  
“Are you _defending_ her?!”  
She glared at Theo, eyes widened in alarm. Then she adapted her usual snooty countenance, and said loftily, “I understand that the pathetic mudblood needs all the help she can get, considering how both her gormless friends, _and_ her mangy muggle parents are going to be dead very soon...”

Hermione scrapped her chair back thunderously, and was on her feet in a flash. Pansy whipped her wand out.  
“Do your worst, you dirty bitch...”

“Pansy, put your wand _down,_ ” Theo barked, and he pulled at her sleeve furiously.  
She lashed out at him, “Are you SERIOUSLY –“  
“I’m defending _you,_ actually,” he said, heatedly, “Do you really think getting into a duel with _Hermione Granger_ is going to end well for you?”

  
That’s when Malfoy emerged from between the bookshelves, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled and drawn. He surveyed the scene unemotionally for a few seconds, before settling his hand on Pansy’s back.  
“Leave it, Pans,” he said frostily.  
Pansy was still resolutely mid-flap. “ _What is_ _going on... I don’t even..._ ”  
“Pans. _Pansy_. Come on.”  
Malfoy seemed equally determined to remain impassive. Or perhaps he was too tired to muster any rage. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his usual pallor had taken on a sickly grey tinge.  
He drew Pansy away with his palm firmly placed between her shoulder blades. Just before he turned to leave, he looked at Theo with some restrained tension evident in his posture.  
His tone, however, was as deadpanned as ever- “Leave it to you to choose the most dramatic way to make a statement.”

 

And then they were gone. Both Theo and Hermione took a moment to reacquaint themselves with regular breathing.  
She sat back down heavily, and he followed, settling down on the chair next to her.

She felt her fury leak out from her pores, systematically being replaced by her old friend, fatigue. Theo was atypically quiet; Hermione had expected him to recover his usual blaséness almost instantly, and was waiting for him to pelt her with quips.

Three minutes later, he still hadn’t spoken. He was frowning down at her copy of _Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms_ , but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing it at all.

“Theo...” her voice was a trifle shaky and hesitant, “Is that what...” she broke off to take a breath, “Am I a statement?” she asked more steadily.  
  
He seemed to be going over her question minutely, because he didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were still glued to her textbook.  
  
“I wanted to get out. Fuck... I _needed_ to get out,” he said, rapidly and brusquely through his clenched jaw, “It’s been... it’s been... it’s been _utter shit_ since the Dark Lord returned, okay? My dad – all our dads – rallied around him like the predictable sodding sycophants that they are... And us, their heirs and spawns, were of course expected to follow. But then... then father gets thrown into Azkaban, and I feel... it’s like... I mean, it’s like I have a _chance_. He’s not going to be in there for long. I needed to do something to get the fuck out of this shitstorm, to make you all believe that I’m not – I am NOT and will NEVER BE – one of them. And you... Hermione... you’re kind; the irreproachable golden girl. If I won your favour, I thought I could... I mean... it would be a lifeline....”

His monologue ended abruptly. Hermione stared at the thin line of dust caked on the edge of the table. She tried to find something to say, but failed. She wasn’t even sure whether she should be angry or comforting.

It appeared that Theo had still more to declare. When he spoke next, he sounded more sure and eloquent than before –  
“But you turned out to be so much more than the bland and banal goody-two-shoes you were supposed to be. You’re enigmatic and smart and so bloody _interesting_ , that I found myself wanting your friendship as much as your vote of confidence. Spending time with you became less about laying the groundwork for my... er, emancipation, and more about just spending time with you.  
“You’re my friend, Hermione. And I’m _your_ friend,” he reached out and grabbed her hand that was resting on the table, “I am, alright? I’m your friend.”

 

He had spoken so ardently and beseechingly. Hermione could feel his gaze intent upon her, but now it was she who couldn’t meet his eyes. She was a little frightened by the intensity she knew she would find there.  
 Instead, she flipped the hand within his grasp over so that she could clasp her fingers around his.

 

“I stunned your father in the Department of Mysteries last year.”  
1... 2... 3... 4... 5...  
“Did you really?”  
“Yes.”  
“My _hero._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later that night, she lay in her bed with her feet propped up perpendicularly against the headboard. Good for blood circulation, her mum had told her.  
Sleep was evading her, too wary of the dreams that would follow such a heavy day. A heavy day, in the wake of other heavy days, making way for what will surely be heavier days... all reminders of what was imminent and inescapable: War.  
To her, the notion of war had been a distant abstraction; nothing that would ever be a part of her immediate reality; ancient wars reconstructed in history books... modern war sagas on the telly... live footage from Sierra Leone... the horror and savagery was too sickening to even attempt to place herself within.  

Sometimes she couldn’t believe her life. She remembered the day Professor McGonagall had suddenly turned into a cat in the middle of her living room, and her parents had been too astounded to say more than a couple of winded ‘yeses’ for the duration of the prim old witch’s visit.  
  
“ _Blimey._ There’s a snow covered forest in my wardrobe, isn’t there?” her dad had said later.

She sometimes liked to imagine what their lives must have been like as 17 year olds. Mum would have been buried in books most of the time, wearing lurid floral shirts, and writing anti-war poetry in a hand sown notebook with pictures of Wilfred Owen and Lorca on the cover.  
Dad was a cool cat guitarist in a rock band trying to break into the British Invasion scene. He never made it of course- his band’s biggest gigs were late night slots in grimy pubs across London, where the crowd kept demanding they cover The Beatles.  
Her mum and dad were both studying dentistry in Bristol, but only met in their second year, at a Labour party rally. They were your typical conflict era revolutionary youth, and though Hermione didn’t like to think about it, they were deeply entrenched in the ‘sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll’ of it all.

And here _she_ was.  
She wore billowing floor length robes, and a pointy hat. She wrote on parchment with a quill, under the light of a candle. She studied about Merlin, goblins, chimeras, and alchemy. She lived in a medieval castle that had a monster infested lake and a shadowy forest full of enchanted creatures.  
She was going to fight a war against a malevolent, sadistic, freshly-resurrected wizard-fiend.  
  
_Mother of Godric_.

She picked up her wand, and immediately felt currents of magic surge through her body. She transfigured her hairclip into an hourglass, just because, and then had it float up into the air and spin like a dervish. Two mini sandstorms erupted in its glass bulbs – frantic, fevered, and fervent.

* * *

 

 

 

Hermione’s next run in with Theo occurred the following morning when she was walking to Charms with Neville and Seamus after breakfast.  
(She no longer broke bread with her usual group, now that Harry and Ginny were _obsessed_ with their upcoming match against Slytherin, and Ron was still adamant on impersonating a snarling Nundu.)

Seamus was in the middle of a hilarious description of the nocturnal snore-symphony he had to endure every night – while Neville, the baritone, blushed profusely – when Theo zoomed into existence out of nowhere, like a time-travelling DeLorean.  
He gripped Hermione’s shoulders, standing before her with wildness and desperation in his eyes. He looked fraught and unhinged - “You have to help me, Hermione.”

“What’s _happened?_ Are you – No, Seamus, it’s alright; put your wand away – Right, Theo... What’s the matter?”

“LOVEGOOD,” he wheezed.

Hermione’s face reflected enough bewilderment for him to deign to explain further.

“She’s driving me _mad_ , Hermione. _MAD._ First it was the Blathergouts, and then the Nargles and the Plimpies and Troozits and Fumpkins and this and that and squiggly fuckknowswhazzits that are supposed to be eating my organs, or laying eggs under my skin, or creating a discombobulating fog around my head. Last night after you left the library, she was somehow just _there_ , and she dragged me out to the lake and had me sit there till fucking _midnight,_ fishing around for Dabberblimps. What the fuck are Dabberblimps?! I don’t know. I don’t know what they look like, but she told me to roll my trousers and muck about in the lake _at night_ in fucking _December..._ And I did it! I’m obviously a complete basketcase because she said that cold water will help repel the somthingswithan’H’ that live between my toes, _AND I BELIEVED HER._ ”

Seamus and Neville were roaring with laughter.

“Er – I know she’s a bit...”  
“ _Impossible_. Not a bit! She’s entirely fucked up and _impossible_.”

Theo was so genuinely stricken that Hermione broke. She was laughing fully in a matter of milliseconds.  
“You can’t be _laughing,_ ” he was appalled. And then – “Oh Circe’s tit, here she comes!”

And just like that he was gone, charging down the hallway. Sure enough, Luna drifted by moments later, and after saying a pleasant hello to them, continued to chase after the traumatised Slytherin.

  
“Did that really just happen!?” Seamus cackled.  
“So...” Neville said, red-faced and grinning, “You and Nott... you’re....?”  
“Friends,” she smiled, “He’s my friend.”

 

* * *

  
 

 

Hermione had most of the day free of lessons, so after another wonderfully productive afternoon spent in the library with Padma, she sauntered out into the grounds to balance out the hours of sedentary preoccupation.

The Gryffindor quidditch team was in the middle of an extremely charged practice session. There seemed to be some big scene going on up in the air, with Demelza crying, Harry and Ginny screaming at Ron, while Peakes glared.  
_Eh_.

She walked around the quidditch stands, rather than across, remembering that time last week when McLaggen had caught hold of her there. She really loved the stinging hex sometimes.

Before she knew it, she found herself at Hagrid’s cabin. The man himself was outside with Buckbeak, tossing an assortment of rodents at the hippogriff.  
  
“Dinnertime is it?” she said in lieu of a greeting.  
“Hullo, Hermione!” Hagrid’s smile shone through his curtains of bristly hair. Dropping the sack of dead animals (to her great relief) he walked over to her and squeezed her shoulder in what she was sure he believed was a gentle manner.  
“I’m jus’ going ter have a chat with Grawp,” he told her, “Want ter come along?”

And so she spent her evening with a giant and a half-giant, giggling over broken sentences and bumbling gestures of affection.

 

“Grawpy still has a crush on yeh,” Hagrid chortled as they walked back.  
“He’s _very_ sweet. Obviously every bit a smooth operator as his brother. How’s Madam Maxime doing, by the way?”  
Hagrid’s cheeks turned scarlet, and he said “Fine,” gruffly.  
Hermione smiled at his bashfulness, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

The woods were lovely, dark, and deep; and all she promised to do later was sleep.  
 

 

* * *

 


	6. Six

 

Sitting opposite Neville, Hermione was ladling steaming hot stew onto her plate. The ceiling of the great hall reflected an incredibly dramatic storm, turbulent enough in its motions and colours to induce shivers, despite the fact that the room was really quite toasty.  
Warm comfort food was the need of the hour.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Ginny wearing a dour expression on her face. Behind her, Dean looked equally aggravated. They both collapsed onto the bench next to her, tearing ferociously into their dinner.

“Ron is a hellacious arsehole.”  
Ginny’s declaration was bolstered by Dean’s grunt of approval.

“Bad round of Quidditch?” Neville asked.  
“Ugh,” Ginny replied, “That’s putting it mildly. I wanted to transfigure him into mound of dragon dung, but I suspect Harry would have objected.”  
She looked at Hermione; “Is he still being a shit to you?”  
“Yes. And I cannot for the life of me figure out _why_...”   
“Er... right. That may be my fault...”  
  
Hermione just shrugged. She wasn’t even surprised by her complete lack of concern about the whole issue. She had evolved, you see. Ron was a silly pubescent boy. Teenage drama was so far below her. Sod him. Sod them all. Sod everyone. Sod the world. She’d had this sodding mantra on repeat in her head all day.  
  
She turned to Ginny, looking to change the topic of conversation, but Ginny’s focus was fixed on something behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, Hermione saw... Harry.  
Naturally.  
With the way Dean was scowling down at his food, Hermione surmised that he was well aware of what had stolen his girlfriend’s attention.  
“I’m... I... need to talk to Harry... about tactics. Tomorrow’s the game, you know..”  
Ginny’s voice had a dreamy quality that was almost Lunaesque, and Dean’s nose scrunched in displeasure as she leapt off the bench. Across the table, Neville and Seamus wore near-identical looks of trepidation.  
Hermione cleared her throat. “So, Dean. I hear West Ham had a bit of luck with a new defender...?” This was perhaps the first time Hermione was glad her dad rambled on about the Premier League in his letters.  
“Yeah. Ferdinand,” Dean grumbled back. And then fell silent. For good.

Well that was a failure.  
Seamus gave Hermione a rueful half-smile. Something akin to a ‘ _nice try, old girl’_.   
  
It was only after nearly the entire table had cleared that Dean spoke up again.  
“She’s going to dump me soon, isn’t she?”  
 “Um...”  
“Yeah. Any day now. I’m expecting it.”  
“I’m sorry, Dean.”  
He chuckled at that. “I always knew I was a filler. She’s just been good at making me forget.”  
He turned to consider her speculatively for a moment, and then said- “But this is all small potatoes, innit? Hook ups and break ups and all that. Just us pretending to be normal kids before shit hits the fan. It’s going to get bad for us muggleborns. Not that I need to tell you that...”  
  
Hermione sighed. She would have preferred him going on about his broken heart.  
“Yes. Bad.” What more was there to say?  
“You know, I really didn’t think I’d have to face this fuckery around here. My dad’s a big bloke. Imposing, you might even say. And it doesn’t matter that he’s a civil rights lawyer; white, sanitised, suburban mums still look at him like he’s out to sell their children drugs. And then I learned that I’m not only a nigger, but a _mudblood_. Humanity sucks.”  
“Power, insecurity, and subjugation: a historically inescapable pattern,” Hermione flinched almost as soon as she’d said that- it sounded pretentious and officious even to her own ears.  
Dean, however, looked mildly amused, “What about your parents, then?”  
“White, sanitised, suburban dentists,” she quipped, and Dean laughed. “...but also godless, commie reprobates, if that helps.”  
“Oh, absolutely.”

 

  
Later, Ginny asked her how she had gotten _her_ boyfriend to talk more than she herself had managed to in weeks.  
It took Hermione a lot of effort to stop her eyes from rolling.  
“We were talking about being muggleborn, and what it means, and such. He probably feels you wouldn’t understand...”  
“Of _course,_ I’d understand?!”  
  
She didn’t though. None of them did.

 

* * *

 

Hermione almost didn’t go down for breakfast the next day.  
Mornings before a quidditch match were generally tedious, but ones before a Gryffindor-Slytherin match? Unbearable.  
The ridiculous chest-thumping and trash-talking was enough to kill anyone’s appetite.  
Predictably, the great hall was a riot of redgold and greensilver; the chatter and cheeriness was nauseating.

She paused when she spotted Ron. He looked vaguely sick and entirely uncomfortable. The sight of him sitting at the table _not_ stuffing his face with sausages and eggs was so abnormal and disconcerting, that Hermione felt a little twang in her heart. Perhaps it was time she offered him an olive branch- he looked far too miserable for her to ignore.

“How are you both feeling?” she asked cautiously, unable to look away from a certain thatch of red hair.  
It was, of course, Harry who deigned to answer her with a careless and succinct “Fine.”  
Harry… who seemed far too absorbed in the pedestrian task of pouring a glass of pumpkin juice. Hermione peered at him, and to her horror, saw a flash of gold disappear up the sleeve of his robe.  
“There you go, Ron. Drink up.”

She managed to stop Ron just as he was about to take his first sip. Both the boys looked bewildered. Ron’s expression held a hint of anger, Harry’s was overcompensating.  

“Why not?” Ron barked at her.  
Taking a calming breath, Hermione turned to Harry, “You just put something in that drink.”

“Excuse me?” Harry’s face was a mask of theatrical disbelief.  
Hermione seethed with barely suppressed fury. “You heard me. I saw you. You just tipped something into Ron’s drink. You’ve got the bottle in your hand right now!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Harry, lightly. But he made a show of shoving a tiny bottle abruptly into his pocket.

She was bowled over. She blinked at him in disbelief, and then tried again to reason with the other one:  “Ron, I warn you, don’t drink it!”  
“Stop bossing me around, Hermione.” Ron drained the glass defiantly and returned his gaze to the sky above, wordlessly dismissing her.  
  
One of the things Hermione hated the most about herself was that her tear ducts were very easily triggered. She could feel moisture building up in her eyes, and the anger in her blood gushed through her veins.

She bent to hiss into Harry’s ear, “You should be expelled for that. I’d never have believed it of you, Harry!”

The look he gave her was one part reproachful, and two parts condescending. “Hark who’s talking,” he whispered back. “Confunded anyone lately?”

   
Hermione tore away from him and out of the hall. She marched aimless out into the grounds, across the pitch, where the crowd and excitement was building up, and... she couldn’t stomach it. She found herself at the edge of the lake, and she paced, back and forth, furiously attempting to work out the pent up frustration.  
These were her friends. Her BEST FRIENDS. How wonderful. One she considered her brother in all but blood, one she was fucking besotted with... and here she was brushed aside, shoved over, disregarded.

She couldn’t think coherently. The anger was now being overpowered by hurt.

What was she to them? Did they truly only value her when she could be useful? Would they even miss her if she wasn’t needed for homework or research purposes?

Hermione let herself cry then. And once she started, she couldn’t stop.  
She could and _would_ blame it on the fact that she was due to bleed in less than twenty-four hours.  
  
As the sobs abated, she sank onto the grass, burying her face between her knees.  
It was only a few seconds later that she heard the rustle of footsteps behind her. She hoped against all odds that it would be Harry and Ron.  
She felt the motion of a body dropping down next to her, and an arm looping around her shoulders. Peeking through strands of her hair, she encountered the sombre profile of Theo Nott. He was looking out at the lake, but feeling her eyes on him, he met her gaze with his own.  
“Hello,” he said softly.  
“Hello,” she croaked back.  
He sighed, taking in her wrecked visage. “What happened? It was those idiotic friends of yours, wasn’t it?”  
He was rolling his eyes before she’d even started to deny his (on point) assumption.  
“Don’t bother, Hermione. I saw you storm out after talking to them.”  
“You... you followed me...?”  
“Of course.” He pulled her closer to his side, and rested his cheek on the top of her head, “I’ll ask again. What Happened?”  
“Just me coming in the way of quidditch, I suppose.”  
She felt his irate expulsion of air as it blew wisps of her hair asunder.  
“Fuckers don’t deserve your friendship, you know?”  
Hermione could feel a fresh wave of tears welling up, and was unable to say anything in response.  
“You’d think Potter would have the awareness and sensibility to understand how important you are. But he’s too wrapped up in himself, isn’t he? And you’re the most reliable, _useful_ support system a prat like that could ask for. I’m not even going to bother assessing Weasley. He’s a right prick. Enough said. Everything else is expected. Why do you let them treat you like this, Hermione?”  
She blinked _furiously_ , begging the tears to retreat.  
“An absolute treasure like you – brilliant, sharp, dazzlingly skilled – crying over a couple of mediocre tossers who have no refinement whatsoever...”  
“ _Forward, the Light Brigade_! _Charge for the guns_!” _he said_.  
“...I’d  hex the shit out of them, if I didn’t know all the other senseless, brawny Gryffinfucks would pummel me to _death_ in retaliation...”  
Well damn. She was sobbing into his chest.  
“... And we both know I’m far too gorgeous to die young. I need to be allowed to age gracefully. It needs to happen. You can picture it right? I will cultivate a batch of very sexy wrinkles, sport glorious salt-and-pepper hair, and women – young and old – will throw their knickers at me.”  
Hermione was a blubbering mess. Was she crying or laughing? But Theo didn’t give her the chance to sort it out.  
“We’d be married, you and I. Obviously. You’d have aged wonderfully too. It’s inevitable, with the bone structure you have. And we’d have done something about your hair. Dear Merlin, Hermione, what is _with_ your hair? You know, in the time we’ve been sitting here, it’s slithered its way into my ears and made a nest for the Blathergouts in my brain.”  
“Luna’s convinced you they’re real?”  
“She has some very compelling arguments in that regard.”  
“Been spending a lot of time with her, have you?” Hermione asked, amused, in spite of the lingering sniffles.  
“Your fault entirely. YOU caused our paths to cross, and now I can’t get rid of her. She’s actually mad, you know? Bonkers. Deluded, and... mad. Mad.”  
Hermione chuckled softly, rubbing her eyes, and extracting herself from Theo’s embrace.  
“You like her, don’t you?”  
Theo balked. “I absolutely do not.”  
She blinked at him in astonishment, as realisation dawned. “Oh my god. You _like_ her!”  
A series of different expressions flashed on his face, before he settled on a deep frown.  
“Absolutely. Not.”  
  
And Hermione began to laugh in earnest.  
“Shut _up_ , Granger!”  
She squeezed her eyes shut, and fell back onto the grass, laughing and laughing, until the old tears in her eyes were all replaced by those induced by joy.

 

* * *

 

 

The game was over by the time Theo and Hermione made it back to the quidditch pitch. They stood at the edge watching the last few stragglers shuffle towards the castle- the ones in scarlet scarves were singing jubilantly.

“Congratulations, I suppose,” said Theo, dispassionately.  
“Hurrah,” she replied in a similar manner.  
“My common room is going to be insufferable tonight. Drunken losers having a collective bitchfit. Bleh.”  
“Um… Theo?”  
“Yes, darling?”  
“Why didn’t Malfoy play?”  
Theo answered too quickly. “Unwell.”  
“Right. Like that’s ever stopped him.”  
“Heh. Right. So. What now?”  
“Not the smoothest of segues, that.”  
“Oh hush. What are you going to do, Hermione?”  
“I’m going to talk to Harry and Ron.”  
“Now?”  
“Yeah. I’ll catch them in the changing room before they get swept up in festivities…” she couldn’t keep the nervousness out of her voice.  
Theo gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, ( _“Find me when you’re done”_ ) and trudged off towards the castle.

  
Hermione ran into Ginny, Dean, and Demelza just outside her destination. Her feeble words of congratulations were muffled by thick red hair, when Ginny flew in to hug her.  
“Coming to the party, Herms?” she trilled.  
“Yes, in a bit,” she replied, faux-scowling at the obnoxious foreshortening of her name.  
  
It was just Harry and Ron in the changing room, thankfully. Slowly and cautiously, she approached the two, and after a deep fortifying breath, she addressed Harry.  
 “You shouldn’t have done it. You heard Slughorn, it’s illegal.”

It was Ron who boisterously responded - “What are you going to do, turn us in?”  
“What are you two talking about?” asked Harry, playing innocent – badly.

Hermione could feel her composure breaking. Her throat was closing up again, her vision was clouding, and her pitch was all over the place. “You spiked Ron’s juice with Felix Felicis at breakfast!”  
“No!” sang Harry. He was grinning. Actually grinning _.  
_ “Yes. You. Did. You. Plonker.” she gritted out, “And that’s why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!”  
“No!” he said, again, and pulled out a tiny _sealed_ bottle from his pocket. “I wanted Ron to think I’d done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking.” Then he aimed a proud, saccharine smile at Ron, saying, “You saved everything because you _felt_ lucky. You did it all yourself.”

“Wait, really?” Ron gaped at Harry. “I was so sure…” he muttered, shaking his head in astonishment. And then he spun around to glower at Hermione, mimicking her shrill tone, “You added Felix Felicis to Ron’s juice this morning, that’s why he saved everything! Fuck you, Hermione. I can save goals without help!”  
“I never said you couldn’t — Ron, you thought you’d been given it too!”

Ron shoved past her and left the room without a backwards glance.  
Harry’s grin had vanished, and he looked pained and uncomfortable.  
“Want to head to the party then?”

Hermione shot him the most disdainful look she could manage while trying to hold back _yet another bloody batch of tears._  “No. You go.”  
  
And she walked back out into the dusky evening.

 

* * *

  
 

Her plan to make a neat escape into the nearest toilet was sabotaged by Theo who was waiting for her in the entrance hall. One look at her face had his mouth thinning into a grim line, and he dragged her into a shadowy corner.  
“Well?” he asked in a clipped tone.  
“It didn’t go well,” Hermione stated, weakly.  
“No shit. I just saw Weasley go by looking mightily pissed off. Would that have something to do with your current state of distress?” He actually sounded so angry... at _her._ It stung.  
“Yes. It was... And he... Ron said... _Ron..._ ” she was stuttering like a total moron.  
Theo studied her face, his neck bent at a very uncomfortable looking angle. What he saw make his scowl more pronounced.  
“I cannot _believe,_ ” his voice was getting gruffer by the second, “that you laughed at my liking Luna, when you fancy Ron fucking Weasley. _Fuck._ ”  
Hermione tried to lighten the mood – “So you admit you li--”  
“Shut up. Are you serious?! Weasley? Ron _Weasley_?! Are you really that pathetic?”  
She knew that this moment warranted anger and indignation, but she had none of those left in her. So she just shrugged and peered at ground. Her feet looked so tiny next to his.  
“How to you justify that to yourself? Dear fucking Merlin, Hermione! He’s so so so far beneath you, I just don’t....” he broke his sentence off with a strangled sound of disgust.  
“Go attend your party.” He ordered.  
“What? _No._ ”    
“ _Yes._ Go. Have a drink. Talk to your friends. Don’t look at Weasley.”  
“Won’t make a difference.”  
“Just stop taking his shit, Hermione. _Look_ at yourself. You’re a force of nature until you let him break you. WHY do you let him break you? He’s such an inadequate little wanker. Stop it. You’re Hermione Granger!”  He grabbed and shook her gently. “Hermione. Granger. Alright?”  
Hermione Granger chuckled softly, and pulled Theodore Nott into a hug. He held her tightly, stroking her hair.  
“By the way, if you utter a word about your ludicrous and baseless allegations to Luna, I will kill you.”  
The usual casual airiness was back in his voice.

 

* * *

 

Oooooooh gosh.

Oh gosh oh gosh O !  
  
Hermione hadn’t felt such a bizarre mix of simultaneous elation and dejection before in her life. Sure, Ron and Lavender were apparently an item now. But she had set a storm of angry birds at him.  
Oh gosh. She had made a flock of tiny canaries peck and claw at him. He’d come in with his newly acquired bimbo, all sheepish and pillock-like, and Hermione had directed a Tweety army to attack him.  
_I Tawt I Taw a Ruddy Twat._  
  
She was laughing hysterically as she walked towards the library. But by the time she got to Padma she was feeling morose again.  
The Ravenclaw in question was watching her closely as she pulled books out of her bag.  
“What?” Hermione snapped.  
“So... Ron and Lavender, huh?”  
“How on earth do you know about that?”  
“Ha. My sister is the biggest gossip Hogwarts has ever seen. I got a bleeding Howler about _Lav and her Ron_ about three minutes after it happened.”  
“Ah.” Hermione hoped her manner would convey how completely she'd love a change of topic.  
No such luck.  
“What do you see in him, anyway? You can do so much--”  
“Yes okay.” She definitely didn’t want to hear that spiel again.  
“No, honestly. He’s an idiot. I went to the Yule ball with him! He didn’t even have the decency to _act_ polite. He sat there all sullen and spent the whole evening staring at...” and then Padma’s eyes widened and Hermione glared. “...Oh.”  
“Quite.”  
“So that’s how it is.”  
“Can we _please_ get down to work now?” Hermione all but growled.  
“Yes ma’am!” Padma threw her hands up in mock surrender.

And for the next three hours, that’s all they did.

 

* * *

 


	7. Seven

    

                                                                            

 

The sixteenth time Theo cast a wary glance at her, Hermione cracked.  
“Yes, Ron is currently seeing Lavender Brown. I feel fine. Please stop staring at me like you’re expecting me to explode.”  
“Sorry.”  
Working on ancient runes assignments with Theo was becoming a regular part of her life.  
“Are you sure you’re fine, though?”  
“ _Theo,”_ she rumbled.  
“What? You can’t expect me not to ask!” he exclaimed.  
“Oh, alright. I wasn’t fine. But now I am. _Definitely fine_.”  
“Okay.”  
“I sicced some murderous canaries at him.”  
 His grin was like the cat that _ate_ the canary. “Excellent. Hey, Hermione?”  
" _What?_ ”  
“I can’t make sense of a single rune on this page.”  
“Show it here,” she said, overplaying her exasperation.  
  
And that’s how Harry Potter found them some time later: in hysterics over Theo’s bizarre translation of 5th century druidic tenets, which he, by some impressive means, had turned into an autobiographical account of a plimpy’s search for existential fulfillment.

Harry cleared his throat – loudly – and said wryly, “Time for lunch, Hermione.”  
After two beats of silence, Theo was packing his books up.  
“This was fun,” he said with his customary waggishness, “I’ll see you later.” And in a move that Hermione was sure was entirely for Harry’s benefit, he dropped a light kiss on the top of her head.

Harry waited until Theo had disappeared from sight, before falling into the chair he had vacated.  
“Well. That was unexpected.”  
“Um...”  
“This is brilliant! I should have known you’d come up with something like this. Could have told me though! Is he a Death Eater too? How much have you gotten out of him so far?”  
Hermione stared at him angrily and said, “That is not what’s going on here, Harry. I’m not _using_ Theo to cement your crazy conjectures, nor to extract information.”  
“Oh come now. Is he a Death Eater?”  
“No more than I am!”  
“But his father--”  
“He is _not_ his father!”  
“ _His father,_ ” Harry pressed on, “is fucking savage! He’s right in the inner circle! Hermione, have you lost your mind?!”  
“Harry Potter, Theo _is not his father._ That man is in Azkaban, and Theo is _very_ glad about that. Now, if we start judging people for who their parents are, we’re no better than the other side. So stop being so fucking unreasonable and trust me on this, because you know full well that I am not a naive idiot!”  
She definitely wasn’t using her library voice.  
“... But...!!”  
“He’s a very dear friend, okay? I will not entertain you casting such awful aspersions on his character.”  
Harry’s mouth fell open a little. “How long has this been going on?”  
“Since the beginning of term.”  
“Whaa—how on earth have I not noticed?” he demanded.  
“Well, Harry, you haven’t exactly been around much, have you?”  
He looked endearingly sheepish at that. Regret shaded his eyes, and Hermione reached out to gently touch his arm.  
“It’s okay, Harry. I understand. Just lay off Theo, please? He’s a good person.”  
He scoffed. “I don’t like this.”  
“And you don’t have to. Do you trust me, Harry?”  
“Look, this isn’t about that...”  
“It _is,_ ” Hermione urged, “I trust him, and _you_ have to trust that I know what I’m doing. So tell me, Harry – do you trust me?”  
“Yeah,” he said, ruffling his hair awkwardly.  
“Then leave Theo alone.”

  
They left the library and walked slowly towards the great hall.  
“Ron’s going to blow a gasket, you know?”  
“Ron’s already blown a gasket,” said Hermione dryly.  
“Well he’ll blow another gasket.”  
“Bully for him.”  
“Um, listen... do you think you could maybe...” he began hesitantly.  
“No, Harry.” Hermione’s inflection was emphatic enough to get him to abandon his weak plea.  
“Okay. Just promise me one thing,” he ventured.  
“What’s that?”  
“Promise me you aren’t secret friends with Malfoy.”  
“Good _god_! First, I am not _secret_ friends with anybody. Secondly... Malfoy, Harry? Are you insane?”  
“I just need to be sure, Herms.”  
“I am absolutely not and absolutely never will be friends with Draco Malfoy. And I will not be friends with you either, if you ever call me that abominable nickname again.”  
Harry grinned. “Okay Herms. Sorry, Herms.”  
She shoved him into a particularly tacky Rococo tapestry.  
“Fucking _ouch_ , HERMS!”

 

* * *

 

Hermione was pulling her hair into a ponytail, and was determined to have it look neat – an exercise that invariably caused her arms to ache from being held aloft for a long stretch of time. She gave up when the pain got too sharp, dropping her arms and slouching her shoulders in defeat. Multiple curls simultaneously sprang loose like jacks-in-the-boxes. She knew that if her locks had faces, they would be laughing jesters.

A swarm of locusts – _pardon me_ – a group of girls pranced into the bathroom, chattering madly. They didn’t notice her standing in front of the corner sink, so engrossed were they in their discussion.  
One girl with perfectly straight blond hair (who Hermione was almost sure was called Martha) had an intensely off-putting whiny undertone to her voice.  
“I mean, if he just knew me, I’m _sure_ we’d be together!”  
“Oh please,” said a rail thin girl with beautifully braided hair, “he wouldn’t look at you twice if you approached him in toffee-covered knickers.”  
The rest of the girls broke into giggles, while probably-Martha scowled.  
The next one to speak was definitely called Romilda, and she had waves and waves of glossy black hair.  
“Harry talks to me, you know. I can tell he’s intrigued!” she tittered inanely, “All he needs is a little push...”  
“You’re sure these Weasley potions work?” asked a girl with smooth coppery curls: possibly-Viola.  
“They do,” replied definitely-Romilda.  
“And how exactly will you make sure he gets a dose?” snarked a girl with long straight coffee coloured hair... Aisha-maybe?  
“Oh, Aisha, (- _ding ding ding-_ ) I’ve spiked a number of little delicacies. Harry can pick whichever he likes.”  
“You’re so lucky you’re in the same house as him,” grumbled probably-Martha. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to get him to eat anything.”  
The entire lot of girls burst out laughing at the unintentional innuendo.  
“Sweets, you couldn’t get _any_ bloke to eat anyt--”  
“Ooh, you’re such a bitch, Emily...”

Hermione had heard enough.  
“Excuse me,” she adapted her most prissy, commanding manner, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate those _Weasley potions_ you’re in possession of. Strictly contraband, you see.”  
Eight pairs of vacant eyes blinked at her in shock.

“We’re not in possession of any potions,” chirped possibly-Viola.  
“Really?” Hermione drawled, doubtfully.  
“It’s true!” recently-confirmed-as-Aisha said, raising her arms, “You can check!” she gestured down her body with her chin.  
More giggles ensued.  
“Actually,” purred definitely-Romilda, “You can get your friend _Harry_ to frisk me.”  
And then they were all delirious with giggles.

Hermione sneered and left the bathroom. Once outside in the superb giggle-free passageway, she let her hair down; the erratic heap of spirals and frizz tumbled down her back, and she swore she could hear it snarling and hissing a little. But that was okay. Those girls may have lovely soft hair, but at least she had a half decent brain under hers.

 

* * *

  
 

Dusk was a strange time. It was such a pronouncedly in-between time, so ambiguous and murky; the rich array of blues and purples it threw out induced a deeply poignant melancholy.  
Even though she was walking with Harry, having an absurd conversation about Filch and Madam Pince’s alleged love affair, Hermione felt terribly alone.    
She was participating in the banter, but her mind was far away. The castle lamps had been lit- luminous orbs of yellow, juxtaposed beautifully with the swaths of navy and prussian and plum that bloomed within the windows they bracketed. It was a palette worth of Van Gogh.  
  
“I’m telling you, they’re having a hot torrid affair right under our noses. Why do you think Filch trained his mangy cat to patrol the corridors at night? It’s so that he could sneak into Pince’s personal corridor...”  
“Harry! Yuck!” Hermione gasped.  
He sniggered.

At least he was making an effort these days. He’d spent the whole afternoon with her in the library. Hermione chose to believe it wasn’t to watch out for Theo, or perhaps simply because Ron’s mouth was attached to Lavender’s, however much her pragmatic side told her that it was so.  
Still... it grated. The way he had immediately assumed she was being reproachful when she sought to warn him about the squad of femme fatales panting after his... ahem, _affections..._ had stung.  
Hermione Granger: forever the nag.  
She only ever felt like a tedious and sanctimonious bore when she was around Harry and Ron. Theo certainly never made her feel that way. Nor did Neville or Ginny. Even Luna, with whom she would often butt heads. And Padma...  
Okay. Perhaps she should go down a couple of notches. Even _Dean and Seamus_ seemed to think she was alright. Hermione thought it was all down to the protective sentiments Harry brought out in her. She worried for him so very intensely that it was only inevitable it would come out in her behaviour around him.  
And she could never please Ron anyway.  
  
When they arrived inside the Gryffindor common room, she found it far too full of bodies and activity. Hermione, in (vacant or in) pensive mood yearned for the bliss of solitude _._ To think about daffodils, or whatever.  
Romilda Vane accosted Harry immediately, shoving all manner of eatables in his face.  
“Told you,” Hermione said, haughtily. “Sooner you ask someone, sooner they’ll all leave you alone and you can--”

Down by the fireplace, Ron and Lavender were cuddled up in an armchair. She was sitting on his lap, playing with his hair, while he nuzzled her neck. Hermione’s stomach clenched horrendously.  
“Well, goodnight, Harry.” She needed to get out of there.

The dormitory was, thankfully, deserted, and Hermione went and stood in front of the large arched window.  
It was true what she had said to Harry- Ron could kiss whoever he liked. He didn’t owe her anything. The unsaid pull that existed between them wasn’t a promise of any sort.

She’d had a fling herself a few months back. Pete Harris, the son of her new neighbours, a student of History at Oxford, had come home for the summer. He modelled his look on Kurt Cobain, and smoked like a chimney while quoting Chomsky. Hermione was smitten.  
She didn’t know where things stood with him. On their last evening together, he’d laid her out on his olive green duvet, peppered kisses down her body, and then torn her apart with his mouth. It was the lone sexual experience in her register – innocent kisses with Victor didn’t really count – and it had been... wonderful.  
Pete hadn’t asked for any reciprocation. Instead, he had simply curled up beside her and fallen asleep. She'd woken up to a packed suitcase, and a deep kiss that smelt of smoke and aftershave. And then he had gone.

Sitting on the window seat, Hermione pulled in her rampant thoughts.  
The point was this: No matter how badly it shredded her heart, Ron was free to kiss whoever he wanted. He was not free, however, to treat her like dirt; like she was disposable and dispensable. He was not free to make her feel like the shittiest toerag there ever was... especially since he had the power to make her feel brighter than the brightest star in the sky.

“Oh, Sirius...” she whispered, as she spotted his namesake twinkling through the window pane. And just like that, the eternal cliché of gazing at an open sky for perspective reasserted itself.  
The life and death of Sirius Black – now that was a true tragedy.  
She pressed her palms against the glass. It had become dark enough outside for her to be able to see a hint of her reflection. Her face faintly superimposed onto the firmament... _Hermione in the sky with diamonds._

What was that line from Thomas Hardy’s poem?  
_White stars ghost forth, that care not for men’s wives,  
Or any other lives._

* * *

 


	8. Eight

 

 _The process of spell casting goes something like this:_  
1\. First, there is the incantation – a potent murmur in an arcane language, which leads to  
2\. The invocation of a specific strain of magical energy, which  
3\. Surges through the body of the conjuror (i.e., the sentient vessel within which magic resides) and then,  
4\. Pushes out into the world – either through a magical conduit, like a wand – or straight out of the conjuror’s pores (the latter requiring considerable skill).

 

Hermione felt alive with the glory of magic.  
She could feel it running in currents under her skin, she could imagine its brilliant swirling iridescence. Kind of like how poncy new age gurus would tell you to ‘visualise your chakras’.  
_Om Shanti Om._

There was a mirror on the desk at which she sat, and her eyebrows were teal; quite a good look on her, she thought. They went well with her skin tone, and gave the illusion that she had subtle green flecks in her eyes.  
She’d achieved this feat in one go – the purpose of the day’s lesson on human transfiguration – so while the rest of her classmates were cursing at their reflections she arched one teal eyebrow at herself, tilting her head, and squinting her eyes sceptically.  
Then she furrowed her teal eyebrows, settling them into a deep frown, and pursed her lips.  
She was in the middle of comically waggling her _teal eyebrows_ (à la Groucho Marx), when Professor McGonagall appeared over her shoulder.  
Hermione’s teal eyebrows puckered in mortification.  
“Very good, Ms. Granger,” she said crisply. There was however the faintest of faint upward tilt to the corners of her mouth. 

Hermione slumped back on her chair, looking around the room. Dean, who had half a red eyebrow, was perched at the corner of his seat, while Seamus pointed his wand at himself. Hermione was instantly nervous as well. Nothing ruined a peaceful day like someone blowing their face off.  
A moment later, Seamus was sporting bright purple eyebrows, and a very large grin.  
Dean gaped at him in disbelief. “ _How the hell did you do that?!_ ”  
  
Harry had one yellow eyebrow. Parvati’s were partially streaked with fuchsia. Lavender’s were still dark blond. Ron’s were...  
Ron had given himself a tufty, curled, very ginger handlebar moustache.  
It looked _so_ ridiculously incongruous on his face that Hermione burst out laughing. The rest of the class joined her soon after, and Ron turned crimson with embarrassment and fury. He glared fiercely in her direction... Hermione should have known comeuppance was imminent.  
  
They moved onto the theoretical part of the lesson, with Professor McGonagall quizzing them on the limitations of human transfiguration. Hermione ( _don’t say obviously_ ) knew all the answers – however, the smooth delivery of her responses was hindered by the great thespian Weasley’s needlessly embellished re-enactment of her enthusiasm.  
Lavender and Parvati were in splits.  
_Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them..._ but she couldn’t.  
Was it hypocritical of her to be upset?

The moment the bell rang, Hermione sped out of the classroom in search of holy sanctuary.  
Fuck, she’d been crying so much this year.

She found an empty bathroom and rushed in, collapsing against the nearest wall. As she sniffled pathetically, she cursed herself for being so bloody sensitive. She really, really wanted to get over Ron, already. Living with a broken heart was terrible, and she wanted out. She wanted to hurt him. _Really_ hurt him, the way he kept hurting her. She racked her brain for ideas while she furiously swiped at her eyes. She needed to do something sufficiently drastic to...  
  
There were footsteps, and then there was Luna standing in front of her, softly blurred because of her tear-filmed eyes.  
“What happened?” she asked.  
Hermione knew that Luna was very accustomed to cruelty, so she answered truthfully. “Stuff with Ron.”  
“Ah. Yes. He can say upsetting things sometimes.”  
“Indeed.” Hermione sniffed and blinked and shrugged. She was really bad at talking to Luna.  
“Theo worries about you, you know?”  
 “Hah. I know. I’m sure he worries about you too.”  
“Oh yes,” Luna nodded solemnly, “he gets quite angry when people make fun of me.”  
Hermione smiled through the last of her whimpers, “I’m glad you’ve become friends.”  
“Me too,” Luna beamed, “He’s even helping me with my care of magical creatures assignment. We go fishing for Dabberblimps every night!”  
“That’s wonderful, Luna.”  
“By the way, Hermione, your eyebrows look stunning.”  
Oh shit. Her teal eyebrows. Hermione was shifting to pull out her wand, when Luna’s soft gasp halted her.  
“What?” she asked; startled.  
“How did you do that?”  
“Do _what_ , Luna?”  
“Your eyebrows are brown again,” she said softly. Hermione frowned in confusion. “You can do wandless, non-verbal magic?”  
“I... I don’t know. I don’t think so?”  
“You just did,” said Luna, looking perfectly placid again. “You know, it’s said that people proficient in wandless magic generally suffer from frequent mental breakdowns. You ought to careful.”  
“Ye—yes.”  
  
Wandless magic. Hermione was itching to go somewhere private where she could explore this possibility further. Her blood rushed at the thought – “Shall we get out of this miserable joint then?” she asked Luna.  
“Yes, please. It’s good that you’re not planning to cry in the bathroom anymore. Moaning Myrtle might think you’re stealing her USP, and you know how awfully sensitive she can be.”  Luna patted her back gently as they walked out. “Oh, hello, Harry! Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?”  
  
And indeed it was Harry with a yellow eyebrow waiting outside the bathroom. Hermione realised he must have rushed out right after her, without even bothering to fix his appearance, and she was filled with gratitude.  
“Hi, Luna,” he said, uneasily, “Hermione, you left your stuff. . . .”  
“Oh yes,” said Hermione, taking her books and things from him, “Thank you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going. . . .”  
She thought she’d spare him the burden of having to comfort her – for both their sakes. She was also desperate to give wandless magic another try.

Rushing up endless staircases, Hermione tumbled through the portrait hole, into the Gryffindor tower, and raced into her dorm in record time.  
She paused at the foot of her bed, her eyes falling on a thick hardbound book that she has placed there in the morning.  
Inspiration struck suddenly… she had to leave immediately.

Growling in frustration at her own warped, teenage girl priorities, she left the way she had come in just moments ago.

 

* * *

 

Hermione scanned the students pouring out of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom on the first floor. When she spotted the individual she was seeking, she beckoned to him frantically.

Looking mildly perplexed, Theo strolled over to her.  
“Hullo. You look like you’ve been sprinting laps around the quidditch pitch all morning.”  
“Something like that,” she replied, a bit breathlessly. “You’d asked me about muggle wars and conflict and all that-” she waved her hand in the universal sign for ‘etcetera’, “- so anyway, I found this book, and, um, I think you’ll find it interesting.”  
She was still panting a little. Bloody hell, she needed to exercise more often.  
Theo took the heavy tome from her hands, running his fingers over the glossy cover. “ _History of the World_ by J. M. Roberts,” he read, “Wow. Thanks. You’ve been running around like a maniac just so you could give this to me?”  
“Well... not exactly...” there was something off in his manner – his posture was too stiff, and his face was twisted into a muted frown. “You look upset?”  
He took in a gulp of air, glaring into the distance. “Potter is taking Luna to Slughorn’s party tonight.”  
“Oh?” she said in surprise.  
“Why is _Potter,_ ” he spat his name out with Malfoy’s brand of vitriol, “taking Luna to Slughorn’s party?”  
“They’re fairly good friends...”  
“Right. Potter has almost the entire female population of Hogwarts at his disposal, and he chose to ask Luna.”  
 “She doesn’t fawn over him like the rest.”  
“Why didn’t he ask you?”  
“He thinks I’m going with Ron.”  
“ _Are_ you?” Theo snapped his head to look frown at her.  
“ _No._ ”  
“Good.” he stated. Clipped. And then – “Why do you think she agreed to go with him?”  
“She likes him, Theo...”  
“ _Right.”_ he ground out, again.  
“... _not nearly_ as much as she likes you _._ ”  
He peered at her. “What are you saying?”  
“I ran into Luna earlier today. She told me how much she appreciates you standing up for her, and helping her with her work, among other things,” Hermione replied loftily.  
“I see.” The ever-collected Theo Nott had two bright spots of red on his narrow face.  
“I can tell you with complete surety that both Harry and Luna are interested in people other than each other.”  
“Yeah. Alright,” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed; “Who’re you going with, if not Weasley?”  
Hermione grinned. “You.”  
“Oh?” his eyebrows shot up and disappeared behind his hair.  
“Do you have any objections?”  
“None! But the rest of Hogwarts might...”  
“Oh, please. Virtually half the school has seen us together. Your friends have. My friends have. They think it’s strange, but they really don’t care. _Harry_ knows, and he’s dealing with it. The only person who doesn’t is...”  
“Weasley.” Theo’s smile was slow to come, but deadly in its impact. “This is _very_ Slytherin of you, darling.”  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend like it won’t serve your agenda as well. So. Will you go to Slughorn’s party with me tonight?”  
Theo laid his palm on his heart: “I’d be honoured to, Hermione.”  
She nodded in a businesslike manner – “Eight O’clock” – and turned to leave. He called out to her just as she began to walk away.  
“Thanks again for the book, by the way.”  
“Don’t mention it,” she called over her shoulder.  
“And, uh... this conversation... I mean the stuff at the beginning... you know... it never happened, right?”  
Hermione was glad her back was turned – he wouldn’t have been pleased by her look of glee.  
“Neeever happened.”

 

* * *

 

She walked deliberately slowly while leaving the great hall after her meal.  
Deliberately. Slowly. She neared the grotesque, writhing, two-headed monster that materialised whenever Ron and Lavender came into contact.  
“Oh, hi, Hermione!” Parvati’s cheery greeting was the very soul of contrition.  
Hermione smiled, and shot back an equally jaunty “Hi, Parvati!” – _Show time. –_ “Are you going to Slughorn’s party tonight?”    
“No invite,” said Parvati sullenly. “I’d love to go, though; it sounds like it’s going to be really good…  You’re going, aren’t you?”  
“Yes.” Hermione girded her metaphorical loins. “I’m meeting Theodore at eight, and we’re going up to the party together.”  
“Theodore? Theodore _Nott_ , you mean?” Parvati’s eyes expanded risibly.  
“Mhmm. The very same.”  
“Are you going out with him, then?” Parvati, demanded urgently.  
Hermione did her best to channel the Romildas, the probably-Marthas, and the possibly-Violas of the world. She simply giggled in response. Harry, who was sitting next to Parvati, shot her a look of disbelief.    
“Wow. I’d heard you both studied together, but I didn’t know it was a… a… _thing!_ ”  
“He’s really quite intelligent.” Hermione considered twirling her hair, but didn’t want to risk creating an unnecessary tangle. “You can imagine how much pleasure I take in that. Well, see you… Got to go and get ready for the party…”  
“Just a minute, Hermione!” Parvati said, still looking scandalised while she pulled a bit of parchment out of her pocket. “My sister asked me to give this to you.”

Hermione thanked her and left.  
She hadn’t looked Ron’s way even once, knowing full well that she was being catty and silly and such an _adolescent..._ yet she couldn’t wrestle down a satisfied smirk.  
The parchment in her hand said: ‘ _Library- tonight. After your stupid party, obviously._ ’

 

* * *

  
 

“You’re scarily vindictive sometimes,” Hermione was told.  
“Oh, and you aren’t?”

Ginny grinned at her – well, at her reflection, standing behind her as she was, braiding and coiling strands of atypically smooth brown hair.

“You should have seen Ron’s face. Like a troll struck by a dozen stunners, he was.” She paused to let Hermione finish laughing. “He’s such a moron. I’m sorry we’re related. Surely I can’t be the first person to tell you this – you can do better.”  
Hermione regarded Ginny – Ginny’s reflection – thoughtfully. “My mum says that girls mature a good five years before boys. At the very least.”  
Ginny nodded. “Mine says that same. And she’d _know_ , you know?”  
“OUCH.” Hermione yelped.  
“Oh shut it. I didn’t pull that hard. Fuck me, you have so much hair! So anyway, my mum... she’d know. It’s why she kept popping out kid after kid until she had me. Pretty daft plan, honestly – stuck with six duds just for one pearl.”  
“I’d say you’re worth all that and more, Ginny Weasley,” said Hermione, giving her a warm smile.  
Ginny kissed the tresses currently in her grasp. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides the Prat Extraordinaire, you’ve only had to deal with that lot in small doses.”  
“True. But besides the Prat Extraordinaire, they’re a _very_ decent lot, I’d say.”  
“Oh, really?” said Ginny, deprecatingly, “let’s go over this decent lot, shall we? The eldest is engaged to an overbearing cow, the one after is so desperate to suppress his latent homosexuality that he ran off to train bloody dragons to establish his masculinity, and the third turned out to be a foul government toady who abandoned his family. Then came a pair of delinquents with massive issues with authority. And after _that_...”  
“The Prat Extraordinaire,” Hermione joined in at the end of the tirade. She was quivering with laughter, and Ginny clicked her tongue in annoyance.  
“Do you mind? I’m trying to work a miracle over here.”  
“Well, excuse me,” Hermione attempted in vain to stem her chuckles, “I didn’t ask you to do this. You practically begged me to let you do my hair.”  
“Of course, I did. This is a very important operation...”  
“Operation Hang the Bastard Out Yonder. OHBOY.”  
“You have _such_ a way with abbreviations!”  
  
There was a short stint of silence after their mirth had subsided. Ginny had finally reached the other side of her head when she asked- “Are you sure you aren’t coming to the Burrow tomorrow?”  
“I am, Ginny.”  
“Come _on_ , Herms...ione,” she said, acknowledging Hermione’s glare, “You don’t have to interact with Ron at all. Harry wants you there, I really, _really_ want you there, Fred and George want you there, and mum and dad would love to see you. Plus, Lupin and Tonks will probably come by...”  
“Of course I’d love to see them all, too; you know that. But I honestly do have a lot of work to complete. I’m not even going to my own home so that I can stay here, and –”  
“And spend time with Nott?” Ginny asked, drowning out the end of her sentence.  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “And there we go. I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”  
Ginny shook her head in bemusement while muttering- “It’s just so bizarre, Hermione!”  
“Perhaps,” she said, “but it _is_ , okay? And before you ask, it certainly isn’t a ploy or sham.”  
In the mirror, Hermione observed her fiery-haired friend struggle to form her next query. After a beat or two, she seemed to settle on something and asked, “Are you actually going out with him?”  
“No, Ginny _._ ”  
“Rea-”  
“ _Really_. It’s completely platonic.”  
“Pity. He’s not bad to look at. A little scrawny, maybe, but then, so are you.”  
Hermione dismissed her with a soft grunt. “Not happening.”

Ginny picked up the final bit of her hair, and began plaiting it. Meeting reflection-Hermione’s eyes, she said, “Harry doesn’t like it.”  
Hermione frowned. “He seems to have... grudgingly... accepted it, actually...”  
“Nah,” she said, looking a bit apologetic, “He’s just not getting after you because he knows you’re dealing with far too much shit as it is. He also feels guilty; like, he if had been around more, you wouldn’t have gone and befriended a sodding Slytherin.”  
“So what if he’s a Slytherin?”  
“So what?! They’re a bunch of no good snakes!”  
_No. Bad answer._  
Hermione was instantly incensed. “That is blanket stereotyping, and it’s beyond absurd! If that entire house is unequivocally evil, why does it even exist? Let’s do away with Slytherin house, and there’ll be no bad witches or wizards in Great Britain ever again! Peter Pettigrew was in Gryffindor, remember?”  
“That’s not what I mean, Hermione,” Ginny said gently, “Bad eggs can pop up anywhere. But you can’t deny where most of them come from. Even the youngest kids here act like such pissing little –”  
Hermione cut her off. “Can you blame them? They come in here as eleven year olds, get sent to a particular table by a mouldy talking hat, and suddenly they’re ostracised by practically all their peers, and even some of the teachers! How would you react to that?”

They fell into another stretch of silence, allowing them both to get lost in their own heads.  
  
“I’m done,” Ginny whispered, causing Hermione to resurface. She stared in awe at the intricate coil of braids and twists at the back of her head.  
“You really are a miracle worker, Ginny.”  
“No shit. I could have done my own hair ten times over in this much time.”  
“You don’t have to do anything to your hair,” she sniped, eying Ginny’s silky tresses, which she had justifiably left loose. Spinning around on the little footstool on which she was sat, Hermione looked up and smiled gratefully at her friend.  
Ginny returned the gesture with a subdued smile of her own. “I’ll talk to Harry over the hols. You’re right; what you said... it’s true.”  
The atmosphere was unacceptably sombre and intense; especially considering the fact that they were due to attend a party in half an hour. Hermione lifted her chin regally and said, “Of course I’m right.”  
Her inflection was all wrong, but Ginny indulged her with a grin.  
“Doesn’t it get tiring? Always being right?”  
Hermione arched her brows and pretended to examine her cuticles. “Not in the slightest. ...HEY!”  
Ginny had pinched her shoulder – gently of course – and Hermione rubbed the spot while giving Ginny the two-fingered salute. Gasping in fake indignation, Ginny pulled her up by the arm and spun her around to face the mirror again.  
“Not too shabby, eh?” she said smugly.  
Before Hermione could say or do anything else, she found herself being dragged out of the dormitory.  
“Where are we going? It’s only seven-thirty...”  
“We have to pass the time in the common room. OHBOY, remember?”

In those subsequent thirty minutes, Hermione felt just about as self-conscious as she had during the Yule ball. She tried desperately to involve herself in the conversation that Ginny, Harry, Dean, and Seamus were engaged in... but they were talking about quidditch, and she was consumed by the knowledge that a certain red-haired boy was sitting diagonally across the room from her, and he hadn’t stop staring at her for a moment.

  

* * *

  
 


	9. Nine

 

Slughorn’s office was dressed up to look like a sumptuous Turkish tent. The walls and ceiling were draped with green, scarlet, and gold silk. A large gilded mosaic lamp threw a diffused red light that bathed the room in a treacherous, decadent glow, which was underscored by frequent puffs of smoke, lilting chants sung to the tune of various string instruments, and the unending murmur of conversation, punctuated with sudden loud bursts of laughter.  
The atmosphere was heady in a suffocating, self-indulgent, trying-too-hard kind of way.  
  
“People are staring,” Hermione grumbled.  
“What did you expect? Although, I think we can safely say that at least half those stares are less about you being here with me, and more about the way you look,” Theo smiled at her, “ _Very_ nice, Hermione.”  
She laughed awkwardly. “Thanks.”  
“Why is that obnoxiously large fellow glaring at me like he wants to pull my guts out of my throat?”  
“Huh? Oh. That’s Cormac McLaggen. He, um, had asked me to go with him...”  
“And you’re telling me this _now_? You didn’t think you needed to warn me about potentially murderous, scorned suitors baying for my blood? I’ve told you before, I’m far too beautiful to –”  
“..to die young. Yes.”  
Theo laughed. He moved to take a sip of his mead, but midway... he froze. It was like he’d been petrified. An alarmed Hermione followed his line of vision, and it led to a very unlikely group of individuals: a somewhat bewildered looking Harry, a _very_ red-faced and beaming Slughorn, a rather tubby gentleman who could be best described as ‘Barney Rubble wearing bifocals’, an animated cadaver – unquestionably a vampire, and last but definitely _not_ the least as far as Theo was concerned, Luna.  
Hermione smirked at her gobsmacked friend. “She looks very pretty, doesn’t she?”  
Theo let out a breathless sound of agreement.  
“Come on then.” She grabbed his arm and began pulling him towards the object of his fixation. A look of untempered relief spread across Harry’s face when he spotted her coming their way, and he took hold of Luna and broke away from his company.  
  
They met near the centre of the room, and the purposefulness that had driven Harry and Hermione up to that point suddenly deserted them. There was a stretch of uncomfortable silence while she looked at him, and he glowered at Theo, and Theo made moony eyes at Luna, and Luna gazed beatifically at the fairies encased in the lamp overhead.

“Hi Harry, Luna!” Hermione chirped. She fucking _chirped,_ and that was enough to draw the attention of the other three.  
“Hey, Hermione... Hello, _Nott.”_ Harry’s face, voice, manner, everything conveyed distaste.   
Luna spoke up before Theo could spit out a proportionately acidic greeting in response, gesticulating towards the twinkling lights above. “Fairies really don’t like being trapped in this manner.”  
“Of course they don’t!” Hermione jumped on board with alacrity, pleased to have a legitimate cause to vent out her irritation, “it’s just one of the many ways magical creatures are abused. Don’t even get me started on the house-elves being forced to navigate this crowd with those humongous platters –”  
“No,” Luna interrupted, “I mean fairies don’t like red-tinted glass. They don’t like what it does to their complexion.”  
Hermione drained her goblet in one neat gulp.  
“Why don’t you tell me more about that, Luna,” said Theo, an unsettling purr pervading his tone. He slipped his arm around her waist, and made to lead her away and into the crowd.  
Hermione yanked him right back into place. “No. Your motive here is to establish your... er, political stance, yes? To make clear where your sympathies lie? So go on,” she said with a wild flourish of her arm, “Convince away.”

And again, there was an awkward moment where she looked expectantly at Theo, and he looked coldly at her, and Harry alternated between frowning at the two of them, and Luna gazed beatifically at the fairies encased in the lamp overhead.

“What grand gesture would you like me to make?” Theo asked, “Shall I stand on a table and recite an ode to Dumbledore? Should I have worn a giant Gryffindor hat? Or perhaps worn robes with ‘Death Eaters are dastardly dicks’ stitched on across the back? Would you like me to drag Potter into the middle of the throng and snog him in front of everyone?”  
“You could start by not behaving like an utter wanker.” Hermione berated him over Harry’s splutter of horror, “You know what to say. You always know what to say.”  
“You’re giving me too much credit there, darling...”  
“I am not – ”  
“No, actually, _I_ am Nott.”  
Hermione glared, quite ready to empty his drink on his head – she might be able to do it wandlessly now – but Harry interrupted her focus.  
“How’s this for an overture of friendship,” he said to Theo, “ _Never_ argue with Hermione when she’s in advocate mode.”  
“As bad as one would expect, ay?” Theo asked with a ridiculous amount of severity.  
Harry responded with equal gravity. “Worse.”  
“I have a beautiful Lion-head Gryffindor hat, Theo. I’ll let you borrow it for the next party.”

It was fair to say the ice was somewhat broken after that. The conversation was stilted, and both the boys were still a bit aloof, but with the help of fine, freely flowing libation, and Luna’s sweet candour, they managed to establish a fragile dynamic of sorts.

“Harry Potter!” came a lively cry from somewhere behind them. Sybill Trelawney materialised dramatically, in a manner befitting a fraudulent seer.  
“Oh, hello,” said Harry, unhappily.  
She greeted Luna with equal enthusiasm, nodded at Theo, but ignored Hermione completely, which suited her just fine. She zoned out as Trelawney twittered at Harry about something or the other, sipping her nth goblet of mead and listlessly trying to cast a weightlessness charm on a house-elf’s platter with nothing but her mind. She swayed from the strain of it… from the influence of her drink… and Theo placed a steadying hand on her back. “We’re doing alright, aren’t we?” he asked.  
She smiled at him, and looking around she realised that their gathering seemed to have expanded. Slughorn was there too, and… Snape?  
Indeed Severus Snape was flashing his usual acrimonious sneer at Harry, while saying- “Funny, I never had the impression that I managed to teach Potter anything at all.”  
“Well, then, it’s natural ability!” Slughorn countered gaily. “You should have seen what he gave me, first lesson, Draught of Living Death — never had a student produce finer on a first attempt, I don’t think even you, Severus —”  
“Really?” Snape looked sour and suspicious, and Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep from throwing her best friend – _best friend, Hermione –_ under the bus.  
  
Things were getting tense. She wanted to whisk Theo and Luna away to the opposite end of the room. Or maybe go hide alone in some corner. Or maybe leave this inane party altogether. She zoned out again. The rosy rose light in the room was the colour of madness. The madness was a fog around her head, and Luna’s mellifluous voice broke through the mad fog, but only after her words were leeched of all meaning. Then there was laughter. The pressure on her back was tremulous, the laughter was unfettered, crazy, and echoing strangely, like the mad fog had solidified, and was causing sound waves to refract in all sorts of mad angles.

She had never been this tipsy before.

Theo grabbed her arm with a jarring tightness just as she felt her eyes flutter shut.  
She resurfaced, and yet again, the alternations to her surroundings took her by surprise. ‘Surprise’, was really a ‘ _what the fuck?!’_ which resulted in the very distressing phenomenon of _sudden onset soberness_. S.O.S.

Joviality looked very disturbing on Filch. There he was, with a manic grin on his face, saying: “I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?”  
Draco Malfoy, mutinous and fuming, snarled: “All right, I wasn’t invited! I was trying to gatecrash, happy?”  
“No, I’m not!” said Filch, grinning, grinning like a harlequin. “You’re in trouble, you are! Didn’t the headmaster say that nighttime prowling’s out, unless you’ve got permission, didn’t he, eh?”  
Slughorn, keeping with the spirit of generosity associated with yuletide, dismissed Filch and extended a spontaneous albeit disinterested invite to Malfoy, welcoming him into the fold.

His pinched expression of displeasure morphed into a gracious smile. With his smooth brow, straight back, and gleaming teeth, he looked like a different person.  
“This is very kind of you, Professor,” he said to Slughorn.  
As the old man pompously waved away his thanks, Hermione looked over at Theo. He was staring fixedly at Malfoy, worry pulling his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth down into a frown.   
“You okay?” she murmured.  
He only shook his head, eyes still locked on his best friend.

“I’d like a word with you, Draco.” This was Snape, whose presence Hermione had nearly forgotten. He, too, looked extremely displeased.   
“Oh, now, Severus,” Slughorn slurred, “it’s Christmas, don’t be too hard —”  
“I’m his Head of House, and I shall decide how hard, or otherwise, to be. Follow me, Draco.”  

Hermione dragged Theo to the side once they had left. He slumped against the wall and sighed dejectedly.  
“He wasn’t trying to gatecrash, was he?” she asked. Theo merely shrugged. “He wasn’t. And you aren’t going to tell me what he was really doing.” She teetered slightly, unexpectedly. Stupid platform sandals.  
Theo steadied her with a hand to her shoulder, and the last vestiges of his frown melted away.  
“You’re drunk.”  
“No.” she laughed feebly.  
“You’re nearly there, then.” Theo smirked, “Come on. I’ll see you to your common room.”  
“No… I have to go… to the library.”  
“Don’t be absurd, you mad bint. You can study tomorrow.”  
“Have to meet Padma. Shouldn’t take too long…”  
With a long suffering sigh, Theo pulled away from the wall and began walking her towards the exit. “I’ll drop you to the library then.”  
Perhaps she was relying a _little_ too much on him for support.

 

They walked in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.  
“Who’s Kubla Khan?” Theo asked, suddenly.  
“…Mongol emperor. Why do you ask?” she blinked at him in puzzlement.  
 “You were just muttering something about him and a dome.”  
“I was? No? Was I?”  
Theo shook his head at her in indulgent exasperation.  
“You are such a bizarre little creature. And here we are at the library, so I bid you farewell.” He laughed as Hermione curtsied. “You are _really_ good at that.”  
“My grandmother insisted I attend ballet lessons as a kid.”  
Giving her a gentle one-armed hug, he said “Goodnight”, and strolled back down the corridor. Hermione watched him until he disappeared from sight.

With careful but wobbly steps, she navigated through the sea of tall bookshelves until she arrived at the table Padma favoured for their study sessions. Except Padma wasn’t _at_ the table… she was sitting on the floor, under a large arched window.  
Her long hair was loose for once – a shiny oil spill meandering in waves down her back – and so was her posture; there was a general wilted look about her. She was still in her uniform, which was disastrously rumpled.  
“Hey, Hermione. Nice dress.”  
“Thanks?” Hermione regarded her uncertainly. She even sounded wrong; all hoarse and drowsy.  
Hermione stumbled to the spot besides her, and sat down heavily on the thick carpet.  
Then she noticed the leather hipflask in Padma’s hand.  
“Er… what’s that?”  
“Firewhiskey.” Padma shrugged carelessly, and then proceeded to take a huge gulp from it.  
“Ah.”  
“So the term-end results are out. Did you see? Did you see what a powerful _brand new_ pain potion, and an instant allergy eliminating potion warrant? Second and third place apparently. And guess who topped? Yes. That’s right. Your superstar chosen one Potter boy.” She made a sound of abject disgust.  
When she offered her flask to Hermione, it was accepted with much gratitude.

They sat side by side, rapidly passing the flask from one to the other. Firewhiskey burned like nothing Hermione had ever known. It was very aptly named. It had none of the smoothness of her dad’s favourite Glenfiddich that she had snuck a few sips of at parties her parents threw. But she found she liked the burn – the burn that filled her while simultaneously emptied her so that there was room for more burn to fill and empty.  
The mad fog was back, and now it was gold like dust mites set alight by candle flames.

Padma’s head landed on her shoulder.

“Fuck Slughorn.”

Hermione recited Kubla Khan (…again?) while Padma played with the silky hem of her dress.

“Nice dress.”  
A voice that was muffled against a shoulder.

The flask was empty. They looked at it forlornly.

“Fuck Potions.”  
She felt Padma nod against her neck.

Two rows of bookshelves were visible from where they were seated. They converged as they receded, bending unnaturally to meet at a point blacker than the lock of Padma’s black hair resting on her wrist. Lines of books were moving into that blackest of black holes at varying paces… it was dizzying, discombobulating… an M.C. Escher mindfuck…

Padma lifted her head slightly.  
“Nice dress…” Hermione felt the intoxicated hum in the warm breath against her jaw. She turned to look at –

Warm, soft lips brushed against hers with the gentlest of pressure. If a kiss could be whispered, that was how it was done. The whisper grew into an assertion as the pressure increased… as Padma sucked at her lower lip, Hermione felt another firewhiskey-like burn consume her. She pulled back in bleary confusion, and Padma looked back at her with blazing twin black hole eyes –

“ _Please._ ”

– and Hermione surrendered. Her mad fog closed in, rushing in through her ears and saturating her brain cells.  
They gave up on being tentative. It was a kiss of defeat and resignation. It was a frantic acknowledgement of futility and disappointment and desperation. Hermione got lost in the clash of lips, and when she felt Padma’s tongue flick against her mouth, she brought out her own.  
They clutched at each other, full-on snogging, mouths open, tongues tangling, breaths heavy.

Padma broke away with a lurch. She gasped, squeezing her eyes shut…  
  


Hermione shakily stood up, catching herself on the nearest chair as she staggered. She walked precariously between the bookshelves; one hand grabbing at whatever it could find to keep herself steady…

She walked towards the universe’s end… the ultimate vanishing point… the blackest of black holes…

 

 

 

 

 

Hermione frowned.  
She was standing in front of the portrait of the fat lady. How on earth did that happen? She gave the blatantly disapproving pink puffer fish the password, and veritably _crawled_ up the stairs to her dorm. Everyone else was asleep. She slipped into her bed without bothering to undress.  
  
Her head was swimming; the mad fog was grey early winter morning London smog. And she couldn’t shake away the memory of lips and warm breath…  
Unbidden, her hand crept into her underwear, and she touched the sensitive dampness with a shudder. She remembered the way Pete had touched her, gentle strokes at first…  
Wonderful, glorious currents travelled up her legs and down her spine. She pictured dirty blond hair and strong tattooed arms, a gruff voice saying _baby baby_ and her hand went deeper and faster and _deeper_ …. And she was confused because blond kept getting streaked with red, and _oh baby_ she spun her fingers in circles, and the last thing she remembered were eyes so blue blue blue _blue_ blue  
blue  
blue o god  
_blue_

 

* * *


	10. Ten

 

Waking up after being petrified by the basilisk was a very strange experience. She vaguely remembered hurrying out of the library all those years ago… and then there was: Nothing.  
A long expanse of blank… and then existence. It had been non-being, and then being. It had been like someone had switched her life off, and then her eyes opened, and things came on again. It had been startlingly abrupt.

This is what Hermione felt when she woke up on Christmas Eve morning: Suddenly extant. She stared up at the canopy above her bed like a newborn taking her first breath – acquainting herself with her surroundings. Her head was throbbing raucously, and she could hear her eardrums pulsing with the rhythm. Her throat was the driest thing in the world. She sat up slowly, groaning in agony. Thankfully, the dorm was empty, and she hurriedly slipped into the bathroom.  
She stood under the hot shower for a long time, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. She vehemently scrubbed her orange blossom scented body wash into her skin, desperate to get rid of the pungent distillery smell that had embedded itself into her pores, and then went over her dim memories from the night before while massaging her scalp with shampoo.  
_Oh dear god._  
Fucking hell.  
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

As she put away her toothbrush after a very thorough cleaning of her teeth, she contemplated her reflection, feeling deeply uncomfortable. Sure, the girl in the mirror looked like she ought to – her skin flushed and dewy, contrasting starkly against her shower-darkened hair that spread around her shoulders and back like seaweed – but Hermione couldn’t find herself relating to this image in the least. She took a couple of steps back, dropping the towel wrapped around her body, and glanced down at her torso… small breasts, narrow waist and shoulders…  
She reached out, stretching her arm to touch her index finger to the mirror. The girl in the mirror followed her movements, and their digits met on the glass, creating a tangible connection. _The Creation of Hermione._  
Alas, this was no Genesis, no divine moment, and there would be no glorious, iconic ceilings painted to immortalise this moment. It wasn’t a creation, or even a _re_ creation, for that matter. It was a bloody teenage crisis; a cliché. A run-of-the-mill existential dilemma… which she wrapped up in fortitude and stowed away. She was not the kind of woman who’d come and go, talking about Michelangelo.

There will be time for such extravagance later.

 

* * *

  
 

“Hermione! _There_ you are!” An anxious looking Ginny rushed towards her, followed closely by Harry.   
When Hermione had finally bothered to look at the clock after her shower, she realised that the Hogwarts Express was due to leave in twenty minutes. She got dressed in a frantic hurry, and charged down to the platform to say goodbye to her friends.  
“Where the hell did you disappear to last night?” Harry asked.  
“I went to the library,” Hermione muttered, hoping they would think that her face was flushed due to the cold.  
Harry and Ginny rolled their eyes in synchrony and laughed. Like, _ha ha, that’s just so Hermione; so typical ha ha ha_.  
Ha ha indeed. _Typical,_ rule-abiding Hermione overdid it at a party, went to the library to get utterly shitfaced on smuggled goods, and then indulged in a bit of harmless sexual experimentation. Except that she couldn’t say with certainty that it was harmless, because she wouldn’t be seeing Padma until after the holidays, so she had no way of knowing how the other girl had processed the incident.

Hermione shook those thoughts away. There will be time for meditation later.

Harry was speaking to her. “I really needed to talk to you! It’s important. Last night I –”  
He was jostled forward awkwardly, when that repugnant, flailing multi-limbed beast Rovender crashed into him.  
“ _Oi!_ ” he cried indignantly, and the sound speared through the beast, and Ron and Lavender emerged.  
“Sorry!” Lavender giggled, sounding as sorry as Snape did while dishing out detentions.  
Hermione was powerless against the determination of her eyes, as they insisted on fixing themselves on Ron. He was looking at her with the ugliest look of contempt she had seen.  
“Yeah, sorry mate. Just saying goodbye to my girl,” he said to Harry, “I’ll see you on the train.”  
He stalked off, pulling _his girl_ along, and they morphed into Rovender again as they walked.

“You were saying, Harry…?” Hermione asked calmly.  
“Er, right. So, last night I followed Snape and Mal –”  
This time he was interrupted by the shriek of the train’s whistle. Grumbling impatiently, Harry pulled her into a hug. “Sod it. I’ll tell you when I get back. Have a happy Christmas, Hermione.”  
“You too,” she said, and then went to hug Ginny.  
“I’m _really_ going to miss you, Herms.”  
Hermione let it slide, just this once.

   

 

The train trundled off, all fat and wobbly like a millipede. Smoke rose in great big tufts, bright against the pastel blue and mauve of the winter morning sky. Haze fractured the sharpness of the surroundings, and everything seemed to be made of irregular flecks and dabs of colour. It was an impressionist painting come to life – like someone had animated Monet’s rendition of the Gare St-Lazare station. Hermione pulled her coat tightly around her and turned to walk back to the castle.

There would be time for romanticism later.

 

* * *

  
 

Oh how she loved brisk, solitary walks. She breathed out into the clean wintry air, sullying it with tiny puffs of fog. She stomped emphatically down on the carpet of snow below, sullying its pristine perfection. These acts of petty destruction were helping her exorcise her inner demons – it was cathartic. Hermione dared to eat a peach.

Nothing had changed.  
Sure, she had woken up feeling like her skin wasn’t her own. She had broken rules for ignoble reasons, she had kissed a girl, and she had relinquished control of her faculties. But nothing had changed, because while the kiss had been nice and being intoxicated was liberating, she was still the girl who was hopelessly pining. The clever girl who really should know better: that was her reality.

Was it time for introspection yet? Was she ready to go down the rabbit hole?  
Hogwarts castle loomed in front of her, housing hundreds of warm fires, hundreds of comfortable armchairs, thousands upon thousands of books...

_Later,_ she thought. There will be time later.

_“There will be time, there will be time_  
_To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;_  
 _There will be time to murder and create,_  
 _And time for all the works and days of hands_  
 _That lift and drop a question on your plate;_  
 _Time for you and time for me,_  
 _And time yet for a hundred indecisions_  
 _And for a hundred visions and revisions_  
 _Before the taking of a toast and tea.”_

* * *


	11. Eleven

 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Hermione beamed up at the towering stack of books on her bed: her parents had truly outdone themselves. Every year they’d pick a theme of sorts, and between her birthday and Christmas, they’d ply her with a carefully curated collection of books. There was however, a less-than-pleased sentiment conveyed in the letter that accompanied them.  
_"I’ve made you an absolutely killer mixtape, but of course you’ll only get to hear it when you bother to come home next."_ Clearly, dear old dad was a bit brassed off.

 _Okay. Concentrate._  
She stared hard at the book at the top of the pile, and thought _Accio!_ with all her might. It shifted perceptibly.  
The second time it hopped up into the air and hovered for a few seconds, before falling back down.  
The third time it came flying into her outstretched hand.  
Hermione grinned with manic delight. One by one, she summoned all the books, stacking them on the floor next to her forsaken wand.  
She summoned the glass sitting on her bedside table. _Aguamenti!_ she cried in her head. Nothing happened.  
The second time, she thought the glass felt marginally cooler.  
The third time, she managed to conjure a few condensation-like beads along the inside of the glass.  
The fourth attempt left her with half a glass full of icy water. Definitely half _full_.

Hermione spent an hour creating absolute chaos in the dormitory that was all hers for the next ten days. Summoning, conjuring, severing and repairing, transfiguring, shrinking, enlarging... She failed a lot, but succeeded more. She felt like Matilda Wormwood after she’d learned to control her powers. _Exactly_ like Matilda – she was an extraordinarily talented, woefully misunderstood bookworm... suddenly exalted. 

Exhaustion gripped her soon enough. She stood amid the wreckage, basking in absolute self-satisfaction. Her magic and her mind had done this. She had tossed a room; surely with enough practice, she could bring down mountains, part the sea, summon tornadoes, chisel rock and steel and build cities like the world had never seen. Elated and euphoric, she stretched out on her bed _gracefully_ like the blooming queen of Sheba, and with languorous waves of her arm, took her time putting things in order again. A botched _reparo_ had left an uncomfortable looking dent in Lavender’s mattress, which Hermione made a point to forget to rectify.

 

* * *

  
 

Turkey and Potatoes and Parsnips, _oh my!_ Christmas dinner at Hogwarts was utterly spectacular, and Hermione hoped the house-elves slaving away in the kitchens liked the hats, socks, and scarves she had sent them. As always, very few students had opted to stay back for the holidays, so they were all comfortably seated on one table in the middle of the great hall. After a surreptitious glance up and down the table, Hermione crooked a finger at a salt cellar, and it sprouted legs and scuttled over to her.  
“Could you perhaps direct some salt my way, Ms Granger?” said an amused voice.  
Startled, Hermione looked into the brightly twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore. Clearing her throat, she mumbled, “Yes sir, of course,” and with a slight flick of her finger, set the cellar a-walking.  
Every single pair of eyes in the room watched the tiny bit of silverware scamper down the table.  
“Impressive,” said Professor McGonagall, gracing Hermione with a rare smile.  
“Simply marvellous!” Slughorn exclaimed through a mouthful of food, beaming.  
Many other commending assertions, hushed and loud, piped up along the table, and Hermione felt her whole face burn.  
“Show off,” Theo muttered in her ear. She glared at him half-heartedly as he grinned at the splodges of red on her cheeks.  
“Shut up,” she hissed back.  
A few seats down, Hagrid was telling Slughorn about how consistently brilliant she had been over the years. The younger children were gaping at her in awe.  
_Thanks for that Dumbledore._ She saw that he was still watching her, smiling knowingly. Hermione wondered how much energy he must expend in keeping that sparkle going in his eyes. It had to be a charm – human eyes didn’t do that.

 

* * *

  
 

They sat on the steps by the archway that opened onto the central courtyard, stomachs full and minds briefly unburdened.  
Hermione was leafing through a book on Arithmancy, and Theo, seated one step below, rested back on his elbows, lazily contemplating the setting sun that looked like a grimy, dumpy little pumpkin though the evening haze. Save for the odd stray student milling about, they were completely alone, and a deep stillness pervaded the usually raucous castle.  
“Why on earth did you choose to stay here for Christmas?” Theo asked her sullenly.  
Hermione emerged from her book and frowned, “Why did you?”  
He shrugged mordantly. “It was bound to be me alone in a cold and lonely castle either which way.”  
“You live in a castle?” she asked in wonder.  
“Mansion. Whatever.”  
Hermione studied his profile for a moment – perhaps he didn’t share her tranquil mood as she had assumed. Indeed, his furrowed brow and cloudy eyes were obvious indicators of inner turmoil.  
“I can’t be around my parents,” she said hesitantly, “I... I just don’t know how to downplay the hell we’re hurtling towards. I never have been able to lie to them.”  
Theo’s frown deepened. “Would they stop you from coming back if they knew?”  
She couldn’t hold back a derisive snort. “Hardly. They’d want to join the Order and fight.”  
His eyes widened with incredulity as he turned towards her. “Seriously?!”  
“Oh yes. No power on earth can stop them from fighting for a worthy cause. They have to stand against all injustices, oppose all wrongs; running and hiding is never an option.”  
“Dear Merlin,” Theo’s expression cleared, and he grinned. “So _that’s_ where you get it from!”  
Hermione sniffed snootily. “I get it from both sides. That’s why I’m twice as insufferable.”  
His laugh rang out, echoing around in the empty courtyard, and she smiled at the sound and the way he looked.

“I’m going to show you something,” he said slowly, “but you have to promise you won’t laugh, or get all sappy on me.”  
“Okay?”  
“No. _Promise._ ”  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Alright, you lug. I promise.”  
He fished around in his bag for an eternity, muttering to himself. Hermione made out a couple of ‘ _where the fuck_ ’s, a few ‘ _somewhere here_ ’s, three ‘ _Ah-haaaa...nope_ ’s and one notable ‘ _dickering doxy bollocks, where is it????_ ’  
She tapped her foot, emitting impatient growl-sighs. The forth ‘ _Ah ha!_ ’ was, thankfully, not a false alarm. With it, Theo pulled a small badge out of the depths of his bag.  
It was a S.P.E.W. badge, slightly scratched up and a bit dented.  
“I nicked it off you ages ago. Well, not _nicked_ ,” he backtracked, “I definitely left you a sickle in place of it.”  
 “ _Why_?” Hermione asked, stunned.  
“I suppose I thought... I still think... they’re important. House-elf rights I mean...” Theo paused as though to mull over his next words. “I already told you I didn’t have a very happy childhood. After my mother died, Boffin – he was her elf – he took care of me. On particularly... bad... days, when I’d be up in my room crying, he’d bring me hot chocolate and biscuits, and tell me stories. For a scraggy kid who rarely saw any kindness... it was, well, everything. I hated how my dad treated him. And then I saw how other wizards and witches treated their elves, and I hated that as well. When I heard about your venture, I knew I had to support it; even though it would’ve had to be- regrettably- in secret. Wasn’t brave enough to take a stand at that point, see. Also, I wasn’t too chuffed at the thought of wearing the word ‘ _spew_ ’ on my chest. You really didn’t think that one through, did you?”  
Hermione knew her eyes were huge. Huge in that cartoony-doe-eyed kind of way. “Oh, _Theo,_ I can’t beli – ”  
“No.” He shot her down, pointing an accusatory finger. “You _promised_ you wouldn’t get sappy. Stop it now.”  
She let out a watery chuckle and said, “Those badges were worth _two_ sickles.”  
“Guess I owe you, then.” Theo laughed... and then stopped abruptly, as though struck by the unintended significance of his statement. Hermione shook her head, hoping to cut short that train of thought.  
“Wow. I managed to recruit four members. Brilliant.”  
“Who were the other three?”  
“Harry, Ron, and Neville.”  
Theo scoffed. “Pathetic. Twat number one and two probably only joined to shut you up. And Longbottom would happily dive into the lake in the middle of a snowstorm for you if you smiled at him.”  
“You mean like you do for Luna?”  
“Fuck off.” He scowled.  
Hermione struggled with a broad grin – she loved how defensive he was about his feelings for the eccentric Ravenclaw. 

They chatted into the evening, well after the sky was a domineering navy blue, and all the lamps inside the castle had flared to life. He was extremely inquisitive about her parents, about their activism, and what were considered ‘contentious issues’ in the muggle world.  
It soon got too cold to be sitting on stone steps out in the open. They moseyed back indoors, aimlessly wandering empty corridors.

“Do you talk to them like this? Potter and Weasley, I mean. Do they know you like this?”  
Hermione’s silence evidently conveyed enough, and Theo made a noise of disgust. “I just cannot understand this supposedly great friendship. You don’t talk about things that matter, you don’t confide in them... _they_ don’t think twice before abandoning you –”  
“Harry has never abandoned me.” Hermione asserted. “Look, I know how it seems to you, and yes, maybe Harry and I don’t have tender heart-to-hearts, but there’s this... implicit and deeply strong _trust_ between us. Like I know, _I know_ , Harry Potter would risk his life on my behalf, no matter what. Nothing can destroy that.”  
“He’s a sodding Gryffindor. And look at his track record – risking his life is like a habit for him.”  
“And you think that hasn’t taken its toll?” she retorted, shrilly. “The things he’s had to endure, the horrors he’s faced, the people he’s lost... and the worst is yet to come. His burden is bigger than any of ours, and he’s never had a choice. He was orphaned, marked, and forced into accepting this fucking nightmare as his destiny. And I will gladly, willingly, unconditionally give him my help and support, because in spite of being in the eye of the storm, Harry takes time out to cheer me up when the boy I fancy goes and gets himself a girlfriend.”

A heavy silence succeeded Hermione’s rant. They’d stopped walking, standing stalk still and on edge in the middle of the passageway. This caused a very crusty looking portrait to tartly chastise them: “Move along yer dawdling dingbats!”  
Both Theo and Hermione jumped. “Naff off!” Theo spat, and Hermione let the ridiculousness of the moment eradicate all the tension.

“Anyway,” said Theo evenly, as they recommenced their directionless trek, “That _boy you fancy_ is a knob.”  
Hermione laughed bitterly. “One of his many character flaws.”  
“And yet you fancy him.”  
“I’m bad at choices.”  
“Well, Hermione,” said Theo, graciously, “I will endeavour to be an exception to that rule.”

A group of ghosts floated by, with vacant eyes and empty smiles. “Merry Christmas,” they softly whispered, and “Merry Christmas,” Hermione and Theo said back.  
_Bah! Humbug!_

Theo pulled out a box of Fizzing Whizbees from somewhere within his robes. They walked, talked, periodically floated off the ground as they ate the sweets, and it was only after an unpleasant run in with Mrs Norris that Hermione realised that it was well past midnight.

Christmas was officially over.

 

* * *

  
 

“What I don’t understand...” and then he halted briefly to take a long sip of butterbeer, “...is how you can dismiss the entire concept of Divination, but believe wholeheartedly in Arithmantic predictions.”

The Three Broomsticks was only moderately full that afternoon. Madam Rosmerta sat idly behind the bar, looking strangely glassy-eyed, as if she had indulged in too much of her own stock.  
It was a cold and sunless day, one that – as both Hermione and Theo agreed – could only be assuaged by warm butterbeer and a steaming plate of chips and gravy.

“Pshaw,” said Hermione, popping a chip into her mouth, “They’re completely different. Divination is all smoke and mirrors. Arithmancy uses numerical calculations and tabulations to deduce the probability of certain outcomes, with solid empirical evidence to back each claim.”  
“Oh, but what about –”  
“Honestly, even the Astrology-based centaur method of divination has its merits. Studying planetary movements to predict broad future scenarios is perfectly plausible... it has its base in legitimate Astronomy, after all.  Now compare all that to Trelawney’s ridiculous tea leaves and crystal balls and _oooooh you’re in grave danger_!” Hermione’s attempt at putting on a spooky voice had Theo looking completely bemused.  
“Luna was right about you, you know,” he said, “You really are obsessed with hard facts and logic. They’re like crutches for you, and you can’t move forward without seeing proper tangible proof for everything.”  
“And what’s wrong with that?!” Hermione spluttered indignantly. “It’s how you establish facts and the truth...”  
“What’s wrong is that it makes you myopic. Limited. Tell me something,” Theo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, “How did little precocious muggleborn Hermione end up believing in magic?”  
“McGonagall turned into a cat in my living room. Hence proved.”  
He rolled his eyes. “Easy as that? But surely that didn’t suddenly supply you with all the answers to the magical world. Like, how you came to possess magic, or what it comprises of –”  
“I’m not _neurotic_ ,” she said resentfully, “I know that... that... fire _is_ , without knowing its exact chemical make. And I know magic _is_ , without knowing the exact atomic deviation that caused it to be. I’ve been looking into it for years now... but it’s a disturbingly unstudied area. And for _that_ ,” Hermione slapped her palms down on the table for emphasis, “I blame the complacent, blasé attitude that you, Luna, and most of the magical community are content to stew in. It can’t just be all whimsy and sparkles! Magic is energy; Muggleborns and squibs prove that the genetic make of muggles and magical folk is near equal. So what _is_ the origin of magic? Where does it come from? I sure as hell am not going to find those answers in the bottom of my tea cup.”

Hermione drained the last of her butterbeer, and Theo fell back in his chair.  
“Blimey, Hermione. Sometimes... the way you talk... you sound just like...” He pulled a face and looked away.  
“Like what?”  
“Nothing.” He replied swiftly, “I’m going to ask for the bill now, and this one’s on me. Don’t you dare argue. You got me three books and that incredible hamper of muggle sweets for Christmas, and I gave you one fucking quill. Merlin. All our outings from now until the end of time are on me. Or until next Christmas, at least, when I can get you a unicorn. Or perhaps your birthday. When _is_ your birthday? I was born on February twenty-ninth, nineteen-eighty. That’s just the kind of luck I have - a sodding leap-year baby. So I just consider the second half of the twenty-eighth of......”  
  
Nobody rambled at the speed of light like Theo. Hermione could only blink, nod, and laugh as he went on and on. There was no stopping him. _Mister Fahrenheit_. Yes; she’d found his theme song.

 

* * *

 

“No, _no_ ,” she said in frustration, “There are six balls in one over, and fifty overs in one innings. But that’s only in one-day matches. Test matches don’t really have a fixed number of overs.”  
“And that’s four innings to each side?”  
“ _No_. One to each side in ODI’s, two to each side in Test matches. Of course, there are certain exceptions, and –”  
“How do you score goals?”  
“ _Gah_ , Theo, I told you, there are no goals. The aim is to collect runs –”  
“You mean the _goal_ is to collect runs,” he said cheekily.  
“Ha ha. Sure. So anyway, six balls in an over, fifty overs... or not, as the case may be... and see, this is the pitch, where the action takes place, this is the crease...”

Professor McGonagall would be most annoyed if she knew her blackboard had a crude diagram of a cricket stadium on it.

“Bleeding shite, Hermione. I can’t believe you said _quidditch_ is unnecessarily complicated.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh god, are you alright?” Hermione gasped through uproarious laughter when Theo fell smack dab onto his arse after a long, frenzied skid down the Hogwarts grounds.  
She pulled at his arm ineffectively, as he sat there groaning.  
It took her over five minutes to get him up and moving again, all the while enduring an enraged tirade against snow.  
  
“You certainly invoke this god fellows name a lot, for someone who claims to be an... er... eighty-ist?”  
“Atheist.”  
“Ah. That’s just as well. Eightyist sounds like what you’d call someone with a fetish for geriatrics.”  
“Oh _god_.”

 

* * *

 

 _The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,_  
_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_  
_The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_  
  
And Theo and Hermione were writing— Writing—writing –  
Theo and Hermione were writing, while sitting on large cushions on the floor.  
  
There was a full but contained fire crackling between them that Hermione had conjured and Theo had suitably praised. Then he had rolled his eyes when she’d pulled out a book and parchment from her bag, before settling down to write a letter to Luna himself.

She drew herself out of the world of _Protective Enchantments and Spells for Conservation_ after a long period of quiet, suddenly finding herself in desperate need for conversation. Honestly – and shockingly – the book had begun to bore her. 

“Theo.”  
“Yeah?” For once, he was the one looking jarred and abstracted, and she was the one smirking.  
“That’s a mighty long _billet-doux_ you’re penning there.”  
Theo glowered. “Funny.”

“Tell me,” she said, “How’re you finding that history book I gave you?”  
For some reason, he flushed and instantly looked away from her. “Good. It’s good. Really fascinating,” he said shiftily.  
“Oh...kay? Where have you reached?”  
“Um, far. Not too far? Sixteenth century. Yeah.”  
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “So the Industrial Revolution then?”  
“Yeah. Exactly,” he said promptly.  
“God, you’re so full of it,” she snapped.  
“Excuse me?”  
“You haven’t read a word, have you?” she demanded.  
It looked like he was going to protest for a moment... but then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “No.”  
Hermione shook her head at him, torn between annoyance and amusement. “Can I have it back in that case? There’s something I want to look up.”  
“No! No. I’ll read it. I will. _Really_.”  
She laughed at his whacky display of near-panic. “I’ll give it back to you soon. Just... our last conversation got me thinking about paganism, and –”  
“ _I can’t give it back to you, alright_?”

Two – Four – Six – Eight seconds went by with her just staring at him.  
“Why on earth not?”  
“I um...” he grimaced and ducked his head, as though expecting to be smacked, “I gaveittosomebodyelse.”  
“You _WHAT?!?_ ”  
_Oh no. Shrill voice._  
“Er, yeah. I just... You see... someone, they um, saw me with it and expressed great interest, so I lent it to them, and –”  
“Where the _fuck_ do you get of lending MY books to other people?!” she yelled.  
“Hey, hey... Hermione calm down...”  
“Do NOT tell me to calm down, you... you... todger! How _dare you_...”  
“Look, he was genuinely intrigued, and I promise you’ll get it back in pristine condition –”  
“– bloody trusted you with MY BOOK, and you went and –”  
“...overreacting –”  
“OVERREATING?!” she bellowed, outraged, “Hullo? Have you met me? Are you truly surprised I’m extremely protective about my books?”  
She hoped for his sake that he'd carefully considered what he’d say next, because she was so so so close to hysteria.  
“I’M SORRY!” he blurted out loudly, looking quite sincerely repentant.  
Hermione gave him the most poisonous look in her arsenal. “Who did you give it to?”  
Theo, impossibly, looked even more contrite, and also... scared? He looked downright wretched. “Now see here... before I tell you, just please try and stay calm...”  
Oh fuck. Oh _no._ She felt nauseous.... and she knew. Of course she knew. It was obvious.  
“...I um... I gav—I _lent it_... to... ohfuckdontkillme... Draco.”

 Hermione felt dangerously livid, and when she spoke, it was with the kind of precarious, deceptive quiet that most people would instinctively run far away from.  
“You gave my book to Draco Malfoy.”  
“...yes. Listen –”  
“You gave my book... my muggle book, written by a muggle man about muggle things, to that awful, bigoted muggle-hating bastard.”  
The fire between them rose to an alarming height, roaring flames nearly scorching the ceiling.  
“WHOA! Hermione, _calm down_!”  
Deep breaths. Count to ten. _That little shit,_ she thought.  
“You little shit,” she said.  
“Listen, I _am_ sorry, but you have to –”  
“ _Do NOT tell me to calm down._ He’s probably torn it to shreds by now! Set it on fire! How could you do this? Oh god, I’m so _furious_ with you right now!”  
“NO!” Theo interjected forcefully, “He wouldn’t do that, alright? I promise you, your book will come back to you looking exactly like it was when you last saw it.”  
“UGH. WHY would you... UGH.” Hermione balled her fists and squeezed her eyes close. _Deep. Breaths._

“Hermione,” Theo adapted a very cautious and gentle tone, “I swear, he isn’t like you think he is. And he’s been reflecting on some things that your book will help him through and –”  
“Don’t try and make me feel sympathetic towards that arsehole,” she cut in acerbically, “It isn’t going to happen. I don’t care about what’s going on in his perverse _little_ mind. I don’t want him anywhere near my book; you get it back Right. Now.”  
“Why?” he asked seriously, with a frown.  
“What do you mean, _why_?”  
“Why can’t you— okay not sympathise— _understand_ his situation?”  
“What bloody situation? And UNDERSTAND?? Seriously?! All I understand is that I’ve been subjected to his ghastly racist invective for as long as I’ve been a part of the magical world. And now he’s got his claws on my book, and.... _oh god._ Does he _know_ it’s mine?”  
“He doesn’t. No! But will you please, _please_ let me talk?”  
“No.”  
“ _Hermione..._ ”  
“Oh just talk, will you.” she barked, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and glaring stonily at the tip of her shoe.  
  
“Draco is every bit as tied down to his fate as Potter –”  
“HAH.”  
“ _Every bit as tied down._ He was born into it. His family, his life, everything has led him to where he is and –”  
“You were born into it too!”  
Theo gritted his teeth at her interruption. “Sure, except my father was a fucking monster,” his temper and tempo were both rising: “He’s been beating the shit out of me for as long as I remember. He beat the _life_ out of my mother. Yes, literally. I can see the thestrals, remember? No, don’t... I’m not saying this to soften you. But understand that _that_ is where I’m coming from. Of course I’d want to run away from it all.  
“But Draco...? His parents _adore_ him. They spoiled him rotten from the moment he was born; he’s known nothing but love and indulgence. So why wouldn’t he go along with what his father – the man who he respected and admired above all – told him? He’s been a dick and bully, but it’s not fun and games anymore, and he knows it. He... he knows it, and it’s fucking _killing_ him. He’s my best mate, Hermione. I know him through and through, and I can see what all this is doing to him. It’s like he’s on a fucking precipice; on the brink of either a revelation... or a complete breakdown. So yes. I gave him your precious book. I’ll do anything to help him, and I won’t apologise for it again.”

 Hermione collected her things, packed them into her bag, and stood up. The fire extinguished itself, drenching the room in shadows.  
“I want you to get my book back to me the very second he gets back to Hogwarts.”  
“Okay.”

She walked away, fully prepared to leave Theo alone in the murk with his thoughts. However, just before she stepped out of the room, Hermione paused, and without turning to face him she said, “Don’t build him up as a victim in front of me again. I understand that he’s important to you, but I’m in no way obligated to be concerned about his circumstance.”  
“Okay.” His voice was raspy, and broke on the second syllable of the word. Hermione was thrown back to the day by the lake when she had cried, and he had held her.

The fire flared back to life. She turned around, and went to sit opposite him again.  
They passed the time silently holding pieces of parchment to the flames and watching them blacken, curl, and crumble.

 

* * *

  
 

“Sing it for me.”  
“Absolutely not!”  
“That’s not fair. You can’t tell me you know the perfect muggle song for me, and then refuse to let me hear it...”  
“I’ll recite the lyrics.”  
“Fuck off. That’s pathetic. Sing for me, darling. Come on.”  
“ _You’re_ pathetic.”

* * *

  
 

On new year’s eve, he lured her over to the astronomy tower with a bottle of wine and half a dozen cauldron cakes.  It was cold and blustery, but alcohol combined with a couple of nifty warming charms had them feeling perfectly comfortable.

And they were nicely, gently fuddled.

“This wine is good,” Hermione smiled.  
“That’s it? Good?” Theo said, drolly, “Aren’t you going to comment on its smokiness, or earthiness, or pick out obscure undertones...”  
She giggled, tilting her head back to look at the stars. Struck by sudden vertigo, she sat straight down by the railing against which Theo was casually leaning. He took a swig of wine, and looked out into the night like a king surveying his flourishing empire.

“What did you think was the craziest thing about Hogwarts when you first came here?” he asked.  
“The fact that we had a Herbology teacher whose name was _Sprout_.”  
Theo choked. Wine dribbled down his chin, and he doubled over laughing.

After recovering, he dropped down next to her, and put his head in her lap. His hair was ridiculously long, with the fringe falling into his eyes. He looked like a young George Harrison. Hermione swept the strands off his forehead and said, “Why don’t you cut your hair? Doesn’t it annoy you?”  
Theo laughed loudly, again. “Oh, Hermione. Do you honestly want to start a conversation about annoying hair?”  
She flicked his forehead.  
“Ah! That was so unnecessary!”  
“Stay out of my hair.”  
“Clever. Ha ha. Then you stay out of mine. ... _Oi_. Not literally. Keep stroking. Feels nice. I think I might take a nap.”  
“If you fall asleep on me, Theo, I will turn your hair blue. Permanently.”  
“We both know I’ll pull it off.”

An owl glided by. Hermione checked her watch... Eleven Fifty-Six PM.  
Another year gone by. She supposed this was meant to be a big moment, but she felt neither anxiety nor excitement. She felt serene. In the past few days, she had finally known what it meant to have a confidant – a true peer.      
She didn’t know when the war was going to fall upon them. She didn’t know when she’d have to fight, when she may die, if she’d ever get to sit for her NEWTs, if things with Ron would ever get sorted...  
  
But she knew that she would be keeping Theo Nott forever.

“Happy New Year, Theo.”  
“Haaappy fucking New Year.”

* * *

 


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

  
Hagrid was a wreck.

He was blubbering over his tea as he told Hermione about Aragog’s rapidly diminishing health.   
Bit by bit, Hogwarts was filling up with students returning after the holidays, and Hermione had thought spending time with Hagrid would be a pleasant and diverting way to pass the morning, till Harry and Ginny showed up.   
It was a decision that she had cursed ten times over in the past hour. There was only so much you could say to comfort a man who was in pieces over an ailing once-ruthless and murderous giant spider whom you’d never had the thrilling pleasure of interacting with.   
So, it was with great keenness – after the fifty-sixth “there there” – that Hermione deposited Fang’s drooling head onto his owner’s lap and left the cabin with a vague line or two about needing to meet the bunch arriving from the Burrow.   
  
She traversed the grounds unhurriedly, carefully casting a charm to harden the snow so that she wouldn’t find herself waist deep in the stuff.  Just as she made it indoors, dusting her cloak, a squeaky cry of “Ms. Granger!” had her spinning around to face Professor Flitwick, looking fairly out of breath.    
“Oh, Ms. Granger,” he rasped, “I’d been asked by the headmaster to hand this over to Mr. Potter, but I’ve just been informed that some students have set off a whole array of those Weasley twins’ products somewhere on the fourth floor, and I’m afraid it needs to be dealt with immediately...”   
“Of course, Professor,” Hermione replied, taking a scroll of parchment from his hand, “I’ll see that this gets to Harry the moment he gets here.”   
“Excellent, excellent,” he called over his shoulder, already charging up the stairs.   
Hermione shook her head as she followed in his wake, albeit at a slightly saner pace. _Of course_ a lot of students would have gotten Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes goods as a substantial part of their Christmas loot. Ignoring the burning curiosity that was begging her to go have a gander at the commotion, she dutifully trudged over to the Gryffindor tower.   
Harry, Ron, and Ginny appeared to be caught in an argument with the fat lady. Remembering the newly changed password, Hermione rushed forward.   
  
“Harry! Ginny!” she called out, “Did you have a good Christmas?”   
Surprisingly, it was Ron who piped up to answer- “Yeah, pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim —”   
Hermione was having none of it. She didn’t even look at him. “I’ve got something for you, Harry,” she said loudly, “Oh, hang on — password. Abstinence.”   
  
“What’s up with her?” enquired Harry with a raised brow once they were inside.   
“Overindulged over Christmas, apparently,” Hermione replied. A grin spilled across her face as she remembered how the fat lady’s complexion had been as pink as her dress that evening, “She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway . . .” She held out the scroll she had been assigned to deliver.   
Harry took hold of it eagerly. “Great,” he said, unrolling it at once, “Another lesson with Dumbledore tomorrow night! I’ve got loads to tell him — and you. Let’s sit down —”   
Like a sudden explosive spurt of thick ketchup from a clogged nozzle, Lavender appeared on the scene. With a piercing cry of “ _Won-Won!_ ” she leaped into Ron’s arms. There was a short outbreak of laughter from a few bystanders, and Hermione participated with only a slight edge of resentment. Turning to Harry, she gestured to the other end of the room. “There’s a table over there… Coming, Ginny?”   
“No, thanks,” Ginny replied limply, “I said I’d meet Dean.”

Hermione and Harry watched her go over to the boy’s dormitory where Dean was undoubtedly… ready… for her. Then they looked at Ron… well, the few fragments of him that were visible from behind Lavender.   
Harry peered down at Hermione. “Walk?” he asked pleadingly.   
“Walk.” she consented willingly.

They leapt out of the portrait hole, and Harry grumbled, “Forced out of our own common room. Bollocks.”   
“It’s shameful.” Hermione commiserated with a laugh.   
He flashed a half-smile at her. “So how was your Christmas?”   
“Oh, fine,” she shrugged. “I hung around the castle. How was it at Won-Won’s?”   
“I’ll tell you in a minute… Look, Hermione, can’t you — ?”   
_No, I will not make nice with that self-absorbed_ _prat_ _._  
“No, I can’t,” she said emphatically. “So don’t even ask.” _Ever_.   
“I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —”   
“It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me,” she snapped. Harry didn’t need to know that the wine she had consumed had only been a few decades old. She fixed her most stern look on him, setting her jaw. Harry sighed in surrender.   
They fell silent as they passed a huddle of Hufflepuffs on the fourth floor landing, buzzing with excitement over what seemed to have been a spectacular show. From amid the throng, Hermione heard frantic high-pitched cries entreating the students to “ _Clear off, clear off at once!_ ” It was obviously Flitwick, but all that was visible of him was the tip of his hat.

They bound down the stairs to the third floor in better spirits, and Hermione asked, “So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?”   
But she had cause to gasp, loudly, before Harry could respond.  There, beside a rusty suit of armour, stood Theo and Malfoy… and Theo was pale as a sheet and clutching his nose, which was bleeding profusely.   
“Theo!” she exclaimed, frightened by his state, but then Malfoy was suddenly in her face, blocking Theo from view. He snarled viciously, “Get the _fuck_ out of here, you cunt!”   
“Drago!” Theo berated thickly, while Hermione struggled to hold Harry back, as he made to launch himself at Malfoy, claws out and teeth bared.   
“ _What?_ ” Malfoy spun around and scowled at Theo, “Hasn’t she done enough?”   
“Drago, stop… fug’s sayg… Stop…” Theo was tilting his head further and further back as he struggled to speak intelligibly.   
“I am _not_ going to fucking stop. This little bitch is the reason you –”   
“Dno! Just go Drago. I’ll get this fixed… join you layder… _Drago…_ ” Using his free arm Theo lightly shoved Malfoy towards the staircase leading downstairs. The blond’s face was twisted with fury, and only Theo’s pathetic desperation seemed to be keeping him from drawing his wand. He descended woodenly, turning back every few steps to glower menacingly at Hermione.   
Hermione had more important things to care about. “Oh good god, Theo! What happened?” she fretted, “Let me have a look, please?”   
He removed his hand, and Hermione whimpered. Even Harry hissed sympathetically. His nose was red, purple, and three times its usual size. Blood dribbled down past his chin and had soaked up his collar.   
“ _Episkey_!” Her voice quivered, but the spell worked. The bleeding stopped, and Theo winced as his nasal bones clicked into place. “Okay. I think that should do it. It will be sore for a while, though. Just... be careful...”   
“Yeah,” Theo replied throatily, “Thanks. A lot. Well... I’ll be off...”   
“Wait!” Hermione grabbed his arm. “Who did this to you?”   
“It was nothing, Hermione. Just an accident...” he tried to shake off her hold, but Hermione was _not_ going to allow that.   
“Why did Malfoy say it’s my fault?” she demanded.   
“Well, he’s barmy, yeah?”   
“That’s true,” Harry chipped in.   
“Hush, Harry. Theo. _Theodore._ Tell me what happened... Right. Now.” Hermione knew perfectly well that her glare could be used as a weapon, and she was not ashamed to wield it when necessary.   
Theo held her stare for two seconds before succumbing. The amateur.   
“It was Blaise and Vince, alright?” he growled, “They were saying shit about ...about, well, _you_. I let them know that it’s not acceptable to do so in my presence. They retaliated a bit violently. The end.” He looked half angry, half embarrassed, and Hermione and Harry gaped at him.   
“I... um, Th –”   
“I will also _not accept_ any gratitude from you. Not for this. I did what was expected... what I believe _you_ should expect from me by now. So don’t thank me... and for Salazar’s sake, do _not_ wallow in guilt. You patched me up, so we’re even. Not that you and I need to be keeping score. If we were to keep score, I’d say I have a whole lot left to do to catch up. Oh, you don’t want to open that can of worms, darling. I’ll bury you in gratitude, I’ll drown you in ‘thank you’s and thoughtful gestures, and then you won’t know what to do with me, or yourself _,_ and then if I’m left with a bleeding nose it will be your doing... I’ve heard from a very reliable source that you can inflict a lot of damage... surprisingly... so if you don’t mind, I’d like to go now. There’s a dragon in the dungeons that need to be tamed.” He paused then, looking thoughtful, “That was not a euphemism for anything salacious. You saw it go by, roaring and spitting fire. So Hermione... Potter... May I be excused?”   
Hermione nodded weakly, and he hopped down the staircase, disappearing from view.

 “He’s alright, that Nott,” said Harry after a few moments.   
“Yes,” she replied bitingly, “Just about ‘ _alright’_.”   
“No. That’s not what I... I meant...”   
She sighed. “I know what you meant, Harry.”   
  
They found a nice large window ledge to perch on, overlooking the forest with its snow covered trees looking like they’d been dusted with icing.   
“Has Nott ever told you anything about Malfoy, about what he’s up to?”   
“No.”   
“It’s just that... well, this is what I’ve been meaning to tell you for _ages_ –”   
And then Harry told her about a heated argument between Malfoy and Snape on the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party. It aligned quite well with the little that Theo had let slip about Malfoy. A task... him being in over his head... under pressure. She decided against voicing these thoughts to Harry. He didn’t need any more fuel.  As far as Snape was concerned, however...  
 “Don’t you think — ?”   
“— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?” Harry interjected in a strangely practiced manner.   
 “Well, yes.”   
“Ron’s dad and Lupin think so,” he said reluctantly. Then he rallied - “But this definitely proves Malfoy’s planning something, you can’t deny that.”   
“No, I can’t…”   
“And he’s acting on Voldemort’s orders, just like I said!”   
“Hmm . . . did either of them actually mention Voldemort’s name?” she asked softly. Surely, he couldn’t actually be a Death Eater. Would Theo protect him if he was? The answer came to her not a fraction of a second later – he would. Of course he would.   
Harry appeared to be recounting the altercation in his head: “I’m not sure… Snape definitely said ‘your master,’ and who else would that be?”   
“I don’t know,” said Hermione, biting her lip. “Maybe his father?”   
She really, really hoped it was his father. How was she supposed to handle things if Harry happened to be right? What tricky, equivocating game was Theo playing? No… no… she couldn’t doubt him. Not now. “How’s Lupin?” she asked, buying herself some time.    
“Not great,” Harry replied, “He’s undercover among a pack of werewolves – Voldemort sympathisers. He’s been struggling, trying to win their trust…”   
“How awful,” Hermione breathed, feeling a devastating shiver surge through her body.   
“Yeah. I asked him about the Half-Blood Prince too,” Harry rolled his eyes at Hermione’s scowl, “He hadn’t a clue… OH!” he exclaimed, suddenly gaining volume, “I had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well!”   
“ _What?_ The minister?!”   
“Who else? He showed up on Christmas with a Percy Weasley shaped scapegoat to get me alone and demand that I give the general public the impression that the ministry and I are great chums now.”   
“Seriously? _Seriously?_ After the way they treated you all of last year… after _Umbridge_ … he wants you to… _oh,_ he has some nerve doesn’t he?”   
Harry grinned. “Don’t worry. I let him know exactly how I felt about his pitch. And the twins and Ginny let Percy know exactly what they thought of _his_ reappearance _._ ”   
“I’m sure,” Hermione said, and laughed.  
  


* * *

 

Hermione felt like a bit of a stalker. It was early in the evening, and she’d hidden herself behind a statue of Athena outside the library, periodically peeking over the goddess’s arm.   
 Finally, after goodness knows how long, she saw her intended victim come marching out of the library. She shot out from her hiding spot, and planted herself firmly in Padma’s path.   
“Hello,” she said pleasantly.   
Padma’s eyes widened, and darted from side to side. She looked like a frightened, cornered animal.   
“Oh... hi... Hermione...” Her typical self-assurance was obviously still on holiday.   
“Did you have a good Christmas, Padma?”   
“Oh, yes. It was nice. Thanks. Er... you?”   
“Mine was lovely as well. I stayed back at Hogwarts, and... wait...” Hermione pulled a bundle of parchment out from her bag, “I did a lot of reading on higher Arithmancy. These are the notes I compiled, but I’m sure I’ve missed something. Perhaps you could look over them?”   
Padma looked at her slightly nervously, but made no move to take her notes.   
Sighing in a long-suffering manner, Hermione said, “Look, we work well together. Regardless of the outcome last time, I think we can both profit if we continue to exchange ideas. Now, are you going to look over my notes or not?”   
Slowly, Padma divested her of the bundle, and then nodded. Her confident demeanour seemed to be pouring back into her. She took out a notebook from her own bag. “Would you read through my research on Dragon Pox? I’ve hit a dead-end, unfortunately. While there are lots of books on the impact of the disease on the heart, I honestly can’t find a single book that has the diagram of a regular heart to compare it with, and –”   
“I have an aunt in Cornwall who’s a Cardiologist. She has a lot of good books for beginners that I’m sure she’d let me borrow if I asked.”   
“ _Oh_ , would you?” And just like that, she was alight and beaming.   
“Sure,” Hermione smirked, “I’ll see you in a couple of days then?”   
Padma laughed, and in a charming homage to the past she said, “Affirmative.”

 

It was ridiculously easy to reason with Ravenclaws, Hermione thought as she prepared to sink into her favourite armchair in the library. It was just a matter of appealing to their intellectual fervour. It was a shame that only life threatening situations worked with her housemates. A troll, a dragon, an execution... she wondered what terrifying and dangerous thing would have to occur before Ron came back into her life.

 

* * *

  
  
By seven o’clock, Hogwarts was at proper full capacity again. There was a body, or two, or six... every which way Hermione looked. To think that just a day ago, it had felt like Theo and her were the only people in existence, roaming where they pleased, when they pleased.    
Now, as they walked back from the owlery, (after Hermione had sent off a long letter to her parents and a shorter one to dear Aunt Malorie in Cornwall) she missed the carefreeness of those days. Theo was covertly guarded, but she was too well attuned to his mannerisms to be fooled.   
“Are you going to be okay?” she asked when they arrived at their point of parting.   
“Yes, Hermione,” Theo tried for lightness, nodding with comical solemnity, “don’t you worry your pretty, bushy little head.”   
Hermione bit her lip uncertainly.   
“Look,” he tried again, “It isn’t going to be all hugs and kisses down there in the dungeons, but that’s hardly much of a change from the usual. And maybe I’ll just have to never speak to Blaise, Vince, Greg, Pansy... Daphne... Ah, sod it all, I don’t care. They aren’t going to try anything serious, I’m sure. Big, bad Draco has my back. And, speaking of...”   
It was with an outstandingly sheepish look on his face that he gave her back her copy of _History of the World_.   
Hermione wordlessly handed him Camus’ _The Rebel_ and Arendt’s _The Origins of Totalitarianism._  
  
  


* * *

 

“Hermione! Finally!” Seamus’ cry besieged her the moment she entered the Gryffindor common room. 

“Um. Yes?”   
He beckoned to her a bit madly from his spot on the carpet, where he was sprawled along with Dean, Ginny, and Colin Creevey. Between them sat a large gramophone.   
“Got this old thing for Christmas,” Seamus explained, “It’s an important heirloom, or some such rot. We’re trying to get it to play some of Dean’s muggle records... but it just won’t work.”   
Taking his cue, Colin dropped the needle, and immediately, the whole room was filled with the most horrible scratching sound. There were shouts of protest from every corner, and Colin quickly silenced the machine again.   
“Ya see?” Seamus asked, pained, “The records that came with this are full of some old bat shrieking... reminds me of fooking Banshees...” he shuddered.    
 “I _think_ it works like a normal gramophone – a muggle one, I mean. Same mechanism... I think.  Just run by... magic?” said Colin, “but something goes wrong, like it’s not in sync or something...”   
“Let me see the record,” Hermione requested, and when Dean handed it to her, she raised a brow. “ _New Order_ , Dean?”   
Dean bristled, “They’re really bloody good!”   
“I agree completely...”   
She examined the grooves on the record, and then looked at the needle on the gramophone; like most wizarding equipment, it was flamboyantly large. She shrunk it with a ‘ _Reducio_ ’, and fingers crossed, set it to play once more.   
It didn’t move. “She’s peeled!” Seamus cried, and Dean and Colin squirmed.   
Hermione rolled her eyes. A simple ‘ _Rennervate’_ later...  there was music everywhere.   
  
Dean whooped joyously, and jumped up onto his feet while pulling Hermione and Ginny along.   
Before and during the Yule ball, Hermione had been a tangle of nerves; all that formal, synchronised dancing terrified her. But this...? This she could do.   
Tossing her hair back, she hopped and capered around with a giggling Ginny and Dean. Seamus dived into the fray as well, and Colin pulled out his camera, and soon enough, the entire room was cheering and clapping while watching them go mad.   
Hermione’s eye got caught on Neville, sitting nearby wearing an easy smile. Something in her expression must have revealed her intentions, because his smile suddenly disappeared, and he was shaking his head in terror.   
She skipped over to him and hauled him up, dragging him into the dance...carpet. Neville looked painfully uncomfortable; Hermione just grinned and poked his arm. With a resigned grumble, Neville attempted to... well, “dance”. It was a mess of arm waving and head bobbing, that had Hermione helpless with laughter. So helpless in fact, that she missed the narrowing of Neville’s eyes... and...   
The next thing she knew, she had been lifted up by the waist and was being spun around and around. The music... the tempo... the cheery noises all around... Hermione clutched onto Neville’s shoulders and threw her head back, taking it all in.   
He put her down, now grinning widely, before taking her arm and spinning her yet again.

* * *

 


	13. Thirteen

Snow gleamed in the bright mid-morning sunlight, and Hermione squinted against its harsh whiteness. Still, it was a clear day and she fancied a stroll – she so rarely got long breaks between classes. Pulling her hat low on her head, and wrapping her thick muffler tightly around her neck, she sauntered out onto the courtyard with an air of content purposelessness.  
She had barely covered a few meters when she heard her name being called out from behind her.  
“ _Hermione_ ,” Harry panted once he had jogged over to her side, “Hi. I just...” and he held up his hand, begging for a moment to catch his breath.  
Hermione grinned at him in all his red faced, skewed glasses glory. “My. You’re quite the athlete.”  
“Oh, shut up,” he wheezed, “You try... running... through ankle... deep... snow.”  
  
Ten minutes later, they were taking slow circles around the yard while Harry gave an account of his latest lesson with Dumbledore. Hermione had to grapple with a twinge of untimely envy; oh, but how could she _not_ want to be a part of such a fascinating investigation into the mind of a psychopath? Dumbledore’s approach was nothing short of an adventure. She could only imagine what it must be like to see firsthand, and through various memories and perspectives, the burgeoning evil blooming forth in a young Tom Riddle.  
  
“…and then he showed me a memory of Slughorn’s where he was sitting in his office surrounded by admiring students… as always,” Harry rolled his eyes, “Riddle asked him about something called Horcruxes –”  
“Hor… what?”  
“ _Horcruxes_. So anyway, suddenly there was this dense white fog that obscured everything, and Slughorn’s voice yelled through it, telling Riddle he knows bugger all about these _horcruxes_ , and he should just fuck off. Er, in different words of course.”  
“That’s… odd.”   
“Yeah,” said Harry, “Dumbledore said it means that the memory has been tampered with. Said that Slughorn’s obviously ashamed of what he said, so he hid it. And now I’m supposed to get the real memory from him. It’s my ‘homework’ apparently,” he finished wryly.  
Hermione frowned. She knew immediately that Harry was going to struggle with this task. “He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she said slowly. And what irked her even more was the fact that she hadn’t even the slightest inkling of what Slughorn was trying to conceal. “Horcruxes… Horcruxes… I’ve never even heard of them…” she muttered irately.  
“You haven’t?” Harry’s disappointment was palpable, and it made her feel ten times worse – she didn’t have an answer ready and waiting… she had let him down.  
“They must be really advanced Dark Magic; why else would Voldemort have wanted to know about them?” she tried desperately to make her speculation seem substantial, “I think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…”  
“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon…”  
  
As if her frustration and regret wasn’t enough. Lately Harry had picked up the habit of dropping Ron’s name in _every bloody conversation_ they had. Hermione felt her temper flare up like it had been given a dose of rocket fuel.  
“Oh, well,” she retorted angrily, “if Won-Won thinks that, you’d better do it! After all, when has Won-Won’s judgment ever been faulty?”  
“Hermione, can’t you — ?”  
“No!”

She marched away from him before he could make any more preposterous requests. Had he ever asked this of Ron? She seriously doubted it – too unnecessary and uncomfortable, she thought.  She didn’t _like_ throwing tantrums, stalking off all petulant-like, but… but… but she missed her mum. The sudden pain of it hit her like a sledgehammer. The last time she had seen her had been nearly six month ago, and Hermione longed to see her smile, feel her embrace, and relive those lovely days in summer when they’d go explore secondhand bookstores while sipping refreshingly chilled lemonade.

 

* * *

  
A bezoar. A fucking _bezoar_.  
Hermione charged out of the potion’s classroom with a head full of brain-melting fury. There were beads of sweat dripping down the back of her neck, her hands were sooty, she was missing a lock of her hair (not that it made a dent in its overall volume), and Slughorn hadn’t even looked into her cauldron. She was perhaps the only person in the room who understood Golpalott’s Third Law, and definitely the only one who had implemented it correctly, yet Harry and his stupid goat stone had won the day. If only Snape had still been teaching them… he would have given Harry three weeks of detention for pulling something so audacious. Slughorn had been so thoroughly _tickled_.  
This was it. She’d had enough. She was going to steal that blasted textbook and throw it into the lake. She was going to tell Slughorn exactly where Harry’s inspired potion making skills where coming from. She was going to tell Theo, who would tell Malfoy, who would tell Snape, who would confiscate the book and give Harry lots and lots of dirty cauldrons to scrub, sans magic.  
But really, she was just going to mutter angrily to herself while she stomped up the stairs to get to her next class.

 

* * *

 

There were exactly two hundred and fifty books on Dark Magic in the restricted section of the Hogwarts library. Hermione had zipped through seventy-three so far, and she hadn’t found a single mention of Horcruxes. In addition to having to deal with the acute aggravation of failure, she now had to live with the knowledge that there existed a potion that could turn a person’s veins into tapeworms, and one that could cause a breakout of large and painful pus-filled boils on a person’s entire body… eyeballs included. She knew of spells that could recreate the symptoms of leprosy and anthrax simultaneously, spells that caused organs to rupture, spells that made schizophrenia seem tame… holy shit, magic was capable of inflicting all sorts of horrors.

She chucked aside useless book number seventy-four.  
Book number seventy-five let out the most frightful wail the moment she touched it. Then it erupted with a stream of horrible blood-slurs that would have impressed Walburga Black. Hermione silenced it with a sneer.

After she’d slammed useless book number ninety one shut, she rested her head on the table in front her. She felt feverish, exhausted, and defeated; _A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear... A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief... In word, or sigh, or tear -_  
“Hi, Hermione.”  
Just the sight of Theo smiling down at her improved her mood drastically.  
“Hi,” she croaked due to her underused voice box.  
He took the seat across from her, and raised a brow at all the towers of books with dodgy titles that lay between them.  
“Interesting choice of literature,” he remarked.  
Hermione shrugged dismissively. “How’ve you been?” she asked.  
“Undoubtedly better than you. You looked like an angry little Erinys after potions yesterday afternoon.”  
Hermione simply shrugged again.  
“Right-oh,” said Theo, give her an odd look, “Well, speaking of interesting literature, those books you gave me... they’re quite something, eh?”  
Hermione smiled tightly, “I hope they’re giving you much to think about...”  
He smirked and eyed her calculatingly for a couple of seconds. Then- “You know full well I’m not the one reading them. I knew the moment I saw those titles that I wasn’t the one they were meant for. You’ll be happy to know that they’re doing quite the number on your intended target.”

Hermione huffed angrily and looked away from Theo’s self-satisfied expression. Yes, she knew exactly whose hands those books were going to land up in... but couldn’t he afford her the dignity of pretending like she _didn’t_ know? What was his problem? When she looked back at him, he was grinning hugely, and Hermione quite nearly threw useless book number forty-nine (it had a scorpion tail for a bookmark) at him.

“Have you finished translating the runes on page seventeen of –”  
“No, not yet.” He was still grinning as he placed his books, parchment, and inkpot on the table. “Shall we get started?”

 

* * *

  
 

It was like every boy she knew had secretly come together and made a pact to annoy the life out of her.  
Thus, a couple of days later, when Ginny asked if she’d like to join her on a nettle collecting expedition, Hermione agreed with great enthusiasm.

“I’m really worried about mum,” Ginny said morosely, kicking a small clump of frost, “She’d only just come to terms with Fred and George quitting school, and then this whole fiasco with Percy happened. And she’s so bloody scared for Harry…”  
Hermione sighed sympathetically as they delved into the edge of the forbidden forest.  
“And then there’s Tonks,” she continued, “I don’t know what’s happened to her.”  
“I don’t think it’s because of Sirius anymore,” said Hermione quietly, “Maybe she’s worried about her parents too…”  
“Maybe. But… I don’t know. It can’t just be that. It’s like she’s been drained of life and colour and… well, it’s a little alarming.”

Ginny sat on her haunches in front of a bush, and took out a small pair of clippers from her cloak pocket.  
“How are things with Dean?” Hermione asked.  
“Shit,” Ginny answered glumly, “I need to end it… it isn’t fair. I just don’t know _how_. I think he knows it’s coming too, so he’s started being overly attentive. It’s driving me mad, but I can hardly dump him for being sweet…”  
“You’re really sure you want to end it, though…?”  
“I am. I…” she sighed, looking up at Hermione, “I can’t stop thinking about Harry. I know what you said about loosening up and all that,” she waved the clippers about expressively, “but I can’t do it anymore. If Harry doesn’t want me, he doesn’t want me –” (Hermione rolled her eyes. Ginny couldn’t possibly be that blind) “– I just can’t seem to stop… bleh.” she finished with a gloomy scowl.  
“Yes,” Hermione laughed sombrely, “I know how that…”  
“Oh no. Harry at least treats me like I’m a person worthy of respect. _You_ have no excuse.”  
Hermione grumbled. “I know that too.”

She looked up through a mesh of barren twigs and branches at the jigsaw sky above. Blackbirds streaked across in a flurry; just enough in number to bake in a dainty pie to set before a king.  
Ginny stood up, her pouch full of thorny leaves, and she looped her arm around one of Hermione’s. “Let’s go back in. It’s too damn cold,” she said. They began walking back to the castle, arm in arm. “Ron accosted me during the hols, you know. He ordered me to tell him what the deal was between you and Nott. I don’t know why he didn’t just ask Harry… I bet he thought he could bully proper answers out of me. Ha! The idiot.”  
Hermione swallowed the uncomfortable lump in her throat. “What did you tell him?”  
“Oh, I told him it’s none of his business. Then, predictably, he began ranting about evil gits, Death Eaters, and betrayal. Worry not, fair maiden; I defended your honour… was proper indignant on your behalf. He was gaping like a buffoon by the time I was through with him.”  
Like a slow ripple, Hermione felt a smile unfurl across her face. “You are an invincible Valkyrie goddess, Ginevra Weasley.”  
Ginny was torn between a grin and a glare. “Thanks ever so much, _Herms_.”

Harry was waiting for them at the entrance hall, looking agitated and malcontent.  
“Hi, Ginny... Hermione.”  
Things between Hermione and Harry had remained a bit strained. Her anger over the bezoar episode still felt raw, and he had no patience for it.  
Ginny’s eyes darted curiously between the two of them. “What’s up, Harry?”  
“I was just wondering if either of you had gotten an invitation to one of those Slug club parties recently.”  
“Not me,” said Ginny, and her inquisitive expression intensified.  
“No,” said Hermione, curtly.  
“Oh. Alright.”  
Six beats of silence later, Ginny let out a low whistle. “Ooookay then. I’ve a class to get to...” She smiled at both of them before departing.  
Harry watched her go with a flustered blush on his face. Then he turned to Hermione. “Er, we’ve got transfiguration, yeah? Shall we...?” he trailed off uncertainly.  
“Okay.”  
“So, um... I really hope Slughorn will have one of his little suppers soon. It might give me another chance to... to attack. Have you had any luck finding out what Horcruxes are?”  
Oh, Harry knew her too well. Of course she couldn’t keep up the silent treatment when he chose _that_ line of conversation.  
“I haven’t found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do! Not a single one!” she was promptly reminded of her frustration with the library, “I’ve been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions - nothing! All I could find was this –” she pulled useless book number hundred and sixty one out of her bag, “–in the introduction to _Magick Moste Evile_ – listen – ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction…’ I mean, why mention it then?” she slammed the tattered old tome shut and stowed it away.  
Harry got lost in thought, frowning down at the stone floor.

 

* * *

 

She had conquered wandless, non-verbal conjuring.  
When she was younger, she’d sometimes (only when she was really, _really_ idle) watch those outlandish Japanese cartoons on the telly. She remembered one in particular, which had a brawny, glowing man with radiant golden hair who could summon balls of intense energy between his palms and send them shooting off wherever he pleased.

Hermione had a big swirling ball of light cupped in her hands, and she gazed at it with wide-eyed wonder. A second later, she pulled her arms back over her left shoulder and threw the ball into the lake, where it hissed as it was extinguished, and sunk.

* * *

 

Padma had managed to double Hermione’s Arithmancy notes. She hugged her in delight when she saw the books on cardiovascular medicine that Hermione was holding... and then stepped back immediately. “Oh, thanks, thank you, cool,” and then she scarpered away. Hermione watched her bolt with amusement. Honestly, Padma was one of the last people she’d expect to have difficulty in letting go of awkwardness.

 

* * *

  
 

“Maybe something a little more cheerful the next time?” Theo said jauntily. He tapped Hermione on the head with _The Rebel_ , before placing in her hand. “The other one will be a bit longer, I’m afraid. Tara.” She looked daggers at his retreating back, at his merry little strut. She could almost imagine him in a top hat and coattails, swinging a cane and whistling.

 

 

Late at night when she had buried herself in bed, she flipped through the book at random, reading passages she had forgotten, and some that she remembered vividly. She encountered no dog-ears, no smears or smudges... her book had been well cared for. There was nothing about it that said it had been in the possession of an utterly vile.......  
There was a piece of folded parchment on page seventy, placed directly under the line, ‘ _The dilemma at this stage is not to be free or to die, but to kill or to enslave_ ’. Hermione gently pulled it open, and gasped as a small spiral of ash lifted off the sheet and hovered a few centimeters above it. Beneath this floating spiral, written in moderately neat cursive was the first stanza of Shakespeare’s _the Phoenix and the Turtle:  
  
_ “ _Beauty, truth, and rarity._  
_Grace in all simplicity,_  
_Here enclos’d in cinders lie._ ”  
  
Hermione folded the parchment shut and placed it carefully back into the book, too bewildered to know what to think.

 

* * *

 

The month of January had gone by so fast. Snowfall had all but ceased, yet the sixth year students were caught in the deluge of another form of precipitation – a relentless torrent of homework assignments.  
There was a large table by a window in the common room, and Hermione, Harry, Neville, Parvati, and Seamus sat around it, working on various essays.  
Dean was sitting a short distance away, drawing them as they worked. Ginny sat by his feet on the carpet, constructing increasingly complicated obstacle courses for her pygmy puff. Seamus’ gramophone was softly playing the best of Louis Armstrong.

It was all so _normal_ , so unremarkable and comfortable that Hermione nearly cried.

* * *

 


	14. Fourteen

 

Seriously though, what if her life had been a corny screwball neo-noir parody sort of thing?  It had a fairly clichéd premise – a group of quirky world saving teenagers, with a hideous and crazy arch-nemesis. There was mystery, intrigue, and a good amount of gore. There would, of course, be no dearth of clever and funny _bon mots_ throughout the entire adventure. Eventually, they’d come face to face with ghoulish ol’ Voldie, and Harry would slide up to him like, “ _Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce que c'est?_ ” and bind him in layers and layers of rope. Then, when Tonks and Mad-Eye would come to take him away and lock him up in Azkaban, Voldemort would scowl and end the saga with one of the most iconic and moving sentences in pop-culture.... “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids!”

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. _Focus, Hermione._ She had an hour to finish three essays, or she wouldn’t have any time left to recommence her search for the meaning Horcruxes, and continue with her research on protective enchantments that she was sure would come in handy very soon, and also...

_Focus, damn it._

* * *

 

 

 _But February made me shiver... with every paper I'd deliver..._  
Hermione’s overtired brain was crooning as she handed her three-and-a-half feet long essay to Snape. He looked down his nose at her, and she felt a rush of... good grief, was that _fondness_ towards the only person in her life that had the decency to be consistent. She always knew what she would get with him – derision and condescension served cold and tart. It was soothing soul balm, really. Sevy’s Scornfully Soothing Soul Balm TM. Altruistic old Sevy dished it out for free; all you had to do was exist. Such admirable steadfastness, Sevy...... oh shit.  
She had been blinking up at him blankly for an entire minute, while her inner monologue suffered from an attack of Theodoritis. His lip curled... and there it was! That entirely predictable look of Sevy-disdainTM, perfect for curdling milk, making little children cry, scaring delicate old biddies... he would make _such_ an excellent evil genius terrorist action film villain...  
“ _What do you want_?” he spat.  
Hermione jumped back in alarm and chagrin. “N-nothing, nothing! Good evening, sir...”  
She turned and scrammed.

“What the hell was that?” Harry asked her with wide eyes.  
“Harry. _I_ _haven’t slept_ , _Harry_.”  
He looked at her like she was a leper. “In how long?”  
“I don’t _know_!” she wailed.  
“Okay, okay,” he said firmly, putting a comforting hand on her back and leading her up the stairs, “How about we rectify that now, yeah? Come on.”

   
No sooner did they walk into the common room than Hermione crumbled into the armchair closest to the fireplace. It was raining and raining buckets outside. Curling up into a tight little ball, she felt someone drape a blanket over her. She waved a grateful hand at whomever it was... her eyes had fallen shut of their own accord.  
“What’s happened to her?” said a voice. She couldn’t quite put a face to it at that point.

“ _This will be the day that I die,_ ” she garbled.  
And promptly fell asleep.

* * *

 

Grey, olive, and rust : lake, forest, and sky.  
Four o’clock, and world outside had turned into a work of abstract expressionism. Someone call Rothko and tell him to have at it.  
Hermione paused by a window on her way to tea and stared out at the fuzzy horizon line.  
“What are you looking at?” Theo hopped up on the ledge and peered through the glass enquiringly.  
“A metaphor, I’m almost sure,” she replied inanely.  
He gave her a look, and Hermione rushed to stop him from commenting.  
“How is it that I never see you and Luna together?”  
Theo smirked knowingly before answering her. “It’s intentional. I don’t want my highly opinionated housemates to know that we’re... er, friends.”  
“Why ever not?”  
He sighed, and a sudden grimness took over his features. “They might try to hurt her, wouldn’t they?”  
“Ah,” she breathed. Then she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “What about me then?” she asked hotly.  
“Oh please,” Theo rolled his eyes, “As if any of those twits could hurt _you_. Specially now, since you can crush all their bones with one casual hand gesture...”  
Hermione was mollified. “Not _all_ their bones.”  
He grinned, and tugged at one of her curls. “I’m starving.”

* * *

 

The journey from the greenhouses to the castle was bloody murder. Hard raindrops like beestings pelted down from every direction, wearing away even the strongest of repelling charms.  
One of Lavender’s boots landed in a puddle of sludge, and the earth accepted this sacrifice with the entitlement of an all-powerful god, leaving her standing in the rain with one soaked, mud-spattered stockinged foot.  
“Won-Won!” she squealed in horror.

The journey from the greenhouses to the castle was an absolute delight. Hermione hung back with Harry and Seamus, and they sniggered as they watched Ron struggle to wade through the slush while carrying Lavender on his back.

* * *

 

On a perfectly dreary Saturday morning, the sixth year students gathered in the Great Hall for their first Apparition lesson. The four heads of houses stood in a line on a raised podium, and they were joined by the ministry appointed instructor.  
“What do you reckon,” Harry whispered in her ear, “all that appearing and disappearing has somehow diminished his substance or something –”  
Hermione fought a valiant battle with a chuckle. He was right – the man before them looked terribly frail and faded.  
“– I mean, he’s practically half- _ghost_.”  
“Shhh!”  
She clamped the insides of her lips between her teeth.

“Good morning,” said the spectral entity, “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition Tests in this time —”  
He was interrupted with a whip-like shout from Professor McGonagall: “Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!”  
A sea of heads turned this way and that, until they were all looking at a pink-faced and glowering Malfoy. Under this scrutiny, he shuffled away from Theo and Crabbe, both of whom were looking quite aggravated as well. Hermione tried to catch Theo’s eye, but he fixed his gaze most determinedly on Twycross, who had gone on speaking as if there hadn’t been any disruption.  
“— by which time, many of you may be ready to take your tests. As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practice. May I emphasize that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try.  
“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.”

This gave everyone permission to wreak havoc. Pushing, pulling, _move over_ , and _listen here_ … simple chaos, which Harry decided to take advantage of.  
“Harry, where are you going?” Hermione hissed, but he ignored her and moved away swiftly, darting between people until he had disappeared somewhere in the back of the crowd. Undoubtedly, he had gone and situated himself closer to Malfoy. She shook off a mild surge of irritation, and focused on the simple wooden hoop that had appeared on the floor in front of her.

“The important things to remember when Apparating are the three D’s!” said Twycross. “Destination, Determination, Deliberation!”  
(Behind Hermione, Parvati muttered, “Thanks, but I’m perfectly happy with my double D’s,” and Lavender giggled hysterically.)

It was one of the dullest hours of her life. She could see her Destination, she had Determination in spades, and bloody hell, she _was_ moving with Deliberation... except she wasn’t moving at all. It was like driving lessons all over again. Sod her poor coordination skills. Her dad had experienced many mini heart attacks when she’d suddenly accelerated instead of breaking, or when she had stalled in the middle of traffic.  
After the fourth try, when Susan Bones had splinched herself, Hermione just _knew_ she’d be the next one to do so.  
Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Nothing happened at all, in fact. There wasn’t a single success story in the Great Hall that morning.  
Twycross’ tone betrayed a complete lack of surprise, “Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destination. Determination. Deliberation,” and after vanishing all the stupid hoops in the room, he left.

Hermione followed soon after, as excited chatter bloomed up around her. She stalked out with _determination_ , knowing her _destination_ was likely to be a bit flaky…  
However, Theo was leaning against the railing of the grand staircase with his arms folded in a very _deliberate_ stance.  
“You thought I was going to be running away, didn’t you? You thought you’d have to chase me, and then haul me over to some secret corner, and demand that I tell you what the hullabaloo in the Great Hall was all about… and I’d protest, but you’d work yourself up in that gloriously _Hermione_ manner, (have I told you how much I adore that about you?) and you’d righteously order me to–”  
“Man alive, would you shut up!” Hermione exclaimed. He snapped his mouth closed, looking affronted. “Your attempt to distract me, while admirable, was futile as always. Since I am not a fan of futility, I’m not going to bother asking you what the hullabaloo was all about.”  
“Oh.” Now Theo looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself.  
Hermione steeled herself, begging her blood not to rush to her face, and said, “Um, I have more books…”  
Instantly he was grinning, she was flushing, and _oh, hang it all_.

Theo had asked for cheerful, hadn’t he? Hermione shoved a stack of half a dozen P.G. Wodehouse paperbacks into his arms, and jogged up the stairs.  
Except… she had snuck in _Crime and Punishment_ between _Carry on, Jeeves_ and _The Mating Season_. It was just too damn important.

* * *

 

Hermione had precisely twelve point six minutes to get from Arithmancy to Potions. Since it was just a matter of going from the first floor to the dungeons, she tempered her pace to a brisk walk.  
As she passed the courtyard, she saw Harry perched on the balustrade with his nose buried in a book. He was wholly, completely absorbed, and for a second Hermione felt so proud, believing this to be her influence…… before she realised that he was most likely pouring over his Prince’s notes.  
She tip-toed over to his side, and craned her neck to look over his shoulder. He wasn’t reading at all – he had the Marauder’s Map resting atop his open book.  
_Curious._ Hermione slowly moved her head closer to Harry’s so that she could speak directly into his ear.  
  
“WhachadoingHarry,” she murmured.  
“MOTHERFUCKER,” Harry roared. He slid off the railing, and hopped, skipped, and trotted for a good two meters before he spun around and gaped at her. “ _Hermione!?_ Oh shit. You nearly killed me!”  
No, Hermione was sure that _she_ was the one who was going to die. Her stomach ached from laughing so hard. It took her a while to recover, after which she sniffed, wiped her eyes, and said, “Sorry about that.”  
“I’m sure you are,” said Harry, _very_ dryly.  
“What _are_ you doing, though? We have potions in... er, now.”  
“Right. Let’s go. I was... I was looking for Malfoy. I’m sure I’ll catch him doing something dubious...”  
“Was he doing dubious things right now?”  
“Well, no. He was in your Arithmancy class. But it’s only a matter of time. You know what’s really weird? Sometimes he just disappears. Literally falls off the map. Where could he possibly be going?”

Oh no. _Oh no._ She could just picture Harry three weeks from now. Unshaven and wild, he’d be hugging his knees and rocking slowly while staring at the map and dully chanting, “where’s Malfoy, where’s Malfoy, where’s Malfoy...”

Hermione was late for potions that afternoon, but since she was with Harry, it hardly mattered.

* * *

 

“Where does Malfoy disappear to?” Hermione asked Theo demandingly later that evening in the library.  
“Sorry?”  
“You heard me. He’s nowhere in the castle _or_ the grounds. So... where does he go?”  
“How do you know that?”  
“That’s not the point.”  
Theo shrugged innocently. Hermione glared.  
“Hey, what’s the difference between the ‘u’ symbol with three dots, and the one with four?”  
“ _Theo!_ ”  
“ _Hermione!_ I really don’t know where Draco...”  
“Right.” Hermione cut in with a growl.  
An infuriating grin spread across his face. “I’ll tell you what... why don’t you ask him yourself? Next time, you can give him your books in person, and have a lovely long chat about his comings and goings.”  
“You know,” she said angrily, “I would think you’d give me less of a hard time about this whole... thing. I’m not remotely invested in it. I’m doing this for _you_.”  
That was enough to wipe his smile away. “I know.”

She huffed and turned her mind back to her work. She needed to finish these translations as soon as possible, so that she could move on to her Transfiguration assignment, and then get back to more important research matters.

“Thank you, Hermione.”  
His sincerity touched her, and she sighed. “What was it you had said...? ‘ _I will not accept any gratitude from you_ ’....?”  
His answering smile was so pure and full, that she simply had to smile back.

* * *

 


	15. Fifteen

  
 

The professors were all going to think that Harry was suffering from severe incontinence with the way he was constantly asking to use the john. Hermione, of course, knew he was really just slipping away to check the Marauder’s map for Malfoy’s whereabouts.   
It was as she had feared – Harry was obsessed to the point of madness. He was always, _always_ searching, his eyes darting wildly hither and thither, and he was always, _always_ disappointed. If he found Malfoy doing regular, innocuous things, he’d shove the map away and run his hands through his hair in frustration. If he found that Malfoy had pulled one of his mysterious disappearing acts, he’d shove the map away, yank his glasses off, and rub his eyes in an utterly harrowed kind of way.

That was the position Hermione found him in as she returned to the common room after an evening of studying about medicinal herbs with Padma. She sat down next to him on the sofa, and waited patiently for his face to emerge from his hands.   
“Hello,” she said pleasantly.   
“Hi,” he sighed, slipping his glasses back on and giving her a look of pure despondency.   
“Malfoy’s gone missing again, has he?”   
“Yes!” cried Harry, suddenly full of heated agitation, “It’s so bloody maddening. I’ve scanned every inch of the castle; he’s _nowhere_. I can’t have missed him! I can’t... I mean, I don’t think I could have...” he trailed off and stared into the fire. Then he turned back to look at her. “Hey! Why don’t you have a gander? See if I’ve missed any–”   
“No.”   
“Hermione, come on...!”   
“Absolutely not,” she pressed, “I will have _nothing_ to do with your fanatical mission, Captain Ahab. You’re wasting away your time and sanity! Give up, already.”   
“How can you say that?” Harry demanded, “You _know_ that Malfoy is up to something shifty and dangerous; how can you happily sit on your hands while he goes about doing... it?”   
“You’ve told Dumbledore, Harry. Why not let him deal with this?” Hermione adapted a gentle, pacifying tone.   
Harry was not pacified. “Fat lot of good that did. Dumbledore didn’t give a shit.”

She didn’t say anything. Hadn’t he understood how Dumbledore functioned by now? He was all about maintaining a facade of absolute calm, when in fact his mind was whizzing, covering every corner. Hermione often wondered how much the old man really knew... how much he had planned, foreseen, or manipulated...   
Since the post-triwizard horror show and the shambles at the ministry, she had had plenty of harsh thoughts about her headmaster. While she knew he cared about Harry, she hated how he was only providing him with information in bits and pieces, at a pace that he seemed to think would best serve the course of events. He had an agenda – that much was obvious. Certainly, his motive was to see the end of Voldemort... but this determination made Hermione very nervous. She didn’t know how much he was willing to sacrifice, and... he _clearly_ wasn’t infallible. Sometimes, she wanted to barge into his office and insist that he tell her everything.   
Harry was lost in his thoughts as well. His forehead was creased with aggravation and preoccupation. Hermione felt terrible.   
“Show me the map, Harry,” she said softly.   
He jerked in surprise, and after considering her for a short moment, handed over the yellowed bit of parchment.   
  
Hermione bent over the sheet, and let her eyes sweep across it, registering every black dot present. Not one was marked ‘Draco Malfoy’. She sighed, straightening her spine. “He isn’t there.”   
“I knew it,” Harry growled, scowling down at her lap.   
“Crabbe is over there, between the sixth and seventh floor... and Goyle’s...... there! Fourth floor corridor...”   
“They’re hardly ever together, the three of them. Which would be weird but, well... not everybody remains friends forever, right?” and suddenly, Harry was morose, “Look at you and Ron– ” She felt her face heat up. “–Are you _sure_ Nott doesn’t know anything?”   
“Yes, Harry. He’s got nothing to do with any of... whatever’s going on.”   
“Alright. _Mischief managed,_ ” he intoned bleakly. He was so transparently glum, which was a very unsettling anomaly. Harry almost never let his emotions show.   
They fell into their own minds again.

  
“Who’s Captain Ahab?” he asked, out of the blue.   
Hermione felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. She told Harry the story of a bitter, manically obsessed man, out on a debilitating and vengeful quest to slay a great white ferret.   
It was wonderful to hear him laugh.  
  


* * *

 

It was truly mindboggling that the wizarding world couldn’t come up with a single decent mode of transportation. Broomsticks were a safety hazard, the floo network was messy and potentially unreliable, portkeys induced motion sickness and vertigo simultaneously, and finally, apparition... a slippery, monstrous menace that could go straight to hell.   
This was the sentiment that united the entire lot of sixth years’ after their third lesson. Not a single student had managed to apparate successfully, though twelve people had splinched themselves, the latest being Justin Finch-Fletchley. Hermione watched him limp into the Great Hall during dinner, looking exceptionally sulky.

“Nobody,” grumbled Seamus, “ _Nobody_ told me it would be this difficult. That Twycross... I could give him a clatter.”   
“Yeah,” Dean seconded, “Fuck his three D’s!”   
Ginny smirked. “What? All at once?”   
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice, spilling more than half of it down his robes.  
  


* * *

 

On the twenty-eighth of February, at twelve PM sharp, she began looking for him. However, much to Hermione’s dismay and irritation, Theo Nott was nowhere to be found. At twelve-thirty, she gave up, and dejectedly went to attend her Transfiguration lesson. 

She finally saw him two and a half hours later, when he burst into the potions classroom, looking flushed and dishevelled, like he had come running all the way from Albania. Taking his usual seat next to Malfoy, he looked confused at Hermione’s look of displeasure when their eyes met.

After class finally ended, Hermione indicated with a gentle tilt of her head that he should follow her, and stalked out of the room. He caught up with her as she reached the stairs, and silently ascended alongside. They were on the second floor when Hermione finally spoke.   
“Where have you been all day?”   
“With Luna. She said she had something for me, and it ended up being in the sodding forest. _Of course_ it couldn’t be somewhere sane and normal, and just... well... there was tree climbing involved... ah, but, anyway... did you need me for something?”   
As they walked into an empty classroom, Hermione gave him a look that screamed ‘ _obviously_ ’. She rummaged around in her bag, and pulled out a neatly wrapped package.   
“Happy birthday,” she stated.   
Theo grinned as he took custody of his present, and began tearing into the paper with gusto.   
“You don’t have to open it right now...”   
“Yes, I do! I simply have – wow! This is beautiful, Hermione! Thank you! Did you make it yourself?” he chirruped as he held up the jade and indigo scarf.   
“Yes,” Hermione said, timidly, “It’s imbued with six different protective charms. Not fail-safe, by any means, but it should hold against basic hexes. It’s also temperature sensitive; it’ll keep you cool in the summer, and warm in the winter...”   
“You are brilliant,” Theo declared. He wrapped the scarf around his neck, and beamed at her. “How do I look?”   
“Very smart,” Hermione laughed. “There’s also this,” and she pulled another box out of her bag, “I had my mum send it over – it’s from my favourite bakery back home...”   
Inside the box was a small frosted chocolate cake. Setting it down on a desk, she conjured a candle and lit it, then took a small step back waiting for Theo to do the honours.   
He was still wearing a humungous grin, and with dancing eyes he bent his head to blow out the tiny flame.   
“Happy birthday,” Hermione said once more.

With large slices on conjured plates, they stood by a window and ate while watching storm clouds gather outside.   
“Mother of Merlin, this is _glorious,_ ” Theo groaned.   
“Isn’t it? I’ll have to take you to this place someday. They have the most incredible assortment of baked goods. You might die, but it’ll be a good way to go.”   
“Definitely.”   
“So,” Hermione’s grin felt a bit wicked as she said, “Theo and Luna were sitting in a tree...?”   
He flushed instantly, but his high spirits seemed to be preventing him from projecting a convincing look of disapproval. “Yes. But we were not engaged in any scandalous activity as you’re so inelegantly implying.”   
“That so?”   
“That _is_ so.”   
She laughed, and Theo marched off to help himself to more cake. He came back with a slice considerably larger than the first.   
  
“This is truly,” he said between mouthfuls, “One of the best birthdays I have ever had. The entire morning in the company of the girl that I, uh, with Luna... Cake and presents with my best friend... and there is, without a doubt, a bottle of firewhiskey and sweetmeats from the Malfoy kitchens waiting for me in my dorm. There’s also a good chance Narcissa would have taken the trouble to ensure that...” He went on talking for a while, but Hermione had stopped listening, her brain stuck on a word. She didn’t know how much later he picked up on her inattentiveness, but she resurfaced when he tugged at her sleeve, asking, “Where’d you go off to?”   
“Erm, I... I was just...” she felt ridiculous and childish, but soldiered on, “You said, um, ‘ _best_ friend’?”   
“...Yes...?” Theo’s expression communicated a tacit ‘ _and your point is....?_ ’   
“I though... Malfoy...”   
“Well, yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “Draco is my brother, and I care about him more than life itself. But lately, he’s been more than a little preoccupied and absent. Not that I blame him, mind you. Not in the least. Nonetheless, he’s not been... around. Now _you_ ,” he smiled down at her indulgently, “you are my tiny, mad-haired salvation. And I love you to pieces.”

Warmth bloomed somewhere deep in her chest, and suffused her entire being. She stared up at him with wide eyes, utterly bowled over. Nobody, besides her parents, had _ever_ so blatantly declared their affection for her.   
“Speechless, are we? It’s okay. I understand. You’re overwhelmed. I have that effect on people. You needn’t worry though; I know you love me, too.”   
Still gripped by her awe, Hermione couldn’t find the words to vocalise her concurrence. So instead, she simply nodded. Vigorously.  
  


* * *

 

Hermione sat up in bed that night leafing through a book on concealment charms with _total determination_. Yes, she was focused. Her mind was completely occupied. Full. Focused. No, wait... she’d already used focused. She was _absorbed_. Engrossed. Immersed. She was not thinking about inconsequential trivialities, like the fact that there was to be another birthday the next day, and that there was another boy who’d be coming of age... a boy who had not – and wouldn’t ever – tell her he loved her, in _any_ capacity... 

_Fuck, shit, dash it all._   
She wondered what Ron had planned for the day. He must have been terribly upset that the weekend’s trip to Hogsmeade had been cancelled... perhaps, if the weather allowed it, he’d have a small picnic by the lake, with Harry, Ginny, Dean, Neville, Seamus... Parvati...... Lavender.

Hermione put away the book, extinguished the orb of light she was reading by, and lay down in the dark, focusing on breathing.   
Why oh _why_ couldn’t she feel this way about Theo? But then... he was besotted with Luna, and that would be a whole other terrible situation in itself. Why couldn’t she feel this way about... god, one of the many single, decent boys in her year? About... about _Padma_. Or better yet... why couldn’t she just not feel this way at all? About anyone. Ever.

Honestly, such maudlin yearning was tarnishing her brilliance. She had turned away from a book she’d normally have finished before falling asleep, so that she could... what?... Moon over the cruelly tantalising way in which red hair gleamed in the sunlight, when a tall figure with lovely broad shoulders would throw back his head and laugh?   
_Fuck. Shit. Dash. It. All._  
She closed her eyes, and begged for sleep.   
  


* * *

 

“Yes, I thought as much.” 

Hermione spun around and blinked at Ginny’s look of exasperation. “I beg your pardon?”   
“I said I thought as much. I was damn near certain you’d choose to hide in some sad corner instead of going to the Great Hall to eat breakfast.”   
“I am not hiding in a sad corner,” Hermione groused from the ~~sad corner~~ shadowy crook where she’d been standing for the past fifteen minutes, “I’m not hungry.”   
She was ravenous.   
“He hasn’t come down yet, you know.”   
“Who hasn’t?” Hermione asked mulishly.   
Ginny narrowed her eyes. “My idiotic brother, that’s who. I reckon he’s still in bed, cuddling and petting his presents. So? Will you please come eat breakfast with me? I promise I’ll leave with you if he shows up.”

Hermione huffed, but let Ginny lead the way downstairs. She needn’t have worried – Ron didn’t make an appearance... nor did Harry. She tried staunchly not to wonder what that was about.   
Ginny offered to accompany her to the library after breakfast, on the condition that Hermione proofread her Muggle Studies essay.

 

But they never made it to the library. Professor McGonagall, pale and grim, waylaid them in the entrance hall. “Ms. Granger, Ms. Weasley; come with me please.” With no further explanation, she began a brisk march up the stairs.   
“Um, Professor,” Ginny ventured, after exchanging an apprehensive glance with Hermione, “Is something wrong?”   
“I’m afraid so,” she replied sombrely, “Your brother was poisoned earlier this morning.”   
Hermione felt the bottom fall out of her world.

 

 

* * *

 


	16. Sixteen

  
That day Hermione learnt how it felt to unravel completely.  
  
“...Who... drink... when... Slughorn...” said Ginny’s voice, and “...Foaming... panic... bezoar... Dumbledore....” said Harry’s.  
 She registered nothing, feeling demented and devastated.

The three of them had been standing outside the closed doors of the hospital wing for... oh, for _ever_ , while Madam Pomfrey worked on Ron. Dumbledore had whizzed in a while back, followed by Snape. Then Dumbledore had left. Each time, the doors opened and closed too quickly for her to be able to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

“...can’t see Slughorn wanting to poison...”  
How were they still summoning up the sanity to fucking speculate, while Ron was lying there in god knows what state, maybe even...  
She was standing rigidly, uncomfortably straight. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. She concentrated hard on maintaining this insane tension in her body, because if she let that go... she’d let go of a lot of other things.  
If Ron didn’t make it, he’d never grin in that wide, puckish, _perfect_ way again... a grin that she hadn’t seen in months... and may never...  
She clenched her jaw.

Time was passing in flashes, inching forward in abrupt jerks every time she blinked.  
  
“...then someone had to know that he planned to gift that bottle to...”  
Blink.  
The puddles of sunlight on the floor had shifted.  
Blink.  
McGonagall entered the hospital wing; Snape left.  
Blink.  
Theo laid a hand on her arm... “something to eat, please?” ...  
Blink.  
It was raining.  
Blink.  
“I’m sure Dumbledore will investigate every possible aspect...”  
Blink.  
Was that Neville?  
Blink.  
Lavender came to put on the most ludicrous show of distress. A mortified looking Parvati dragged her away after McGonagall burst out looking furious.  
Blink. Blink. Blink.

Night fell, and they were still waiting. Harry and Ginny had finally stopped conjecturing, and stood silently on opposite ends of the double doors, like a couple of sentries.

“Mum!”  
Hermione twitched, and saw that indeed, Mrs Weasley was hurtling towards them, followed closely by her husband, and Dumbledore. She didn’t acknowledge any of them, tearing straight through the doors without a word. Mr. Weasley offered them a dismal nod.

Another age went by...

  
...After which Dumbledore and the Weasley’s reemerged, the missus sobbing pitifully into her husband’s neck as he held her.  
“Dad? _?_ ” Ginny asked in alarm, but neither of them spoke. They just continued to walk away, down the corridor. “ _Dad_!”  
Hermione’s throat closed up, her vision blurred, her ears felt like they were on fire.  
“What happened? _WHAT HAPPENED_?” Harry yelled.  
  
“Calm yourself, Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s command had Hermione, Ginny, and Harry spinning on the spot as if they wished to apparate. “He’s fine. Ron Weasley is going to make a full recovery,” she articulated each word slowly and thoroughly; and with each syllable, Hermione felt herself come out of her fugue state.  
The doors opened once more, and Madam Pomfrey’s face popped out, and she _finally_ allowed them in.  
“Yes, Mr. Weasley should be completely fine. Of course, he will have to stay here for a week or so, and be regular with his doses of essence of rue,” the matron said as she led them to Ron’s bed. Hermione’s stomach muscles clenched tighter and tighter with every step she took.

There he was. His skin was the color of bleached corals, and dotted with beads of sweat. His scruffy hair was damp and swept away from his forehead. From chin-down, he was covered with a thick quilt. She came to a halt at the foot of his bed, her eyes glued to his faintly quivering lips, to his barely trembling eyelashes…  
Ginny fell into the chair closest to his bed, picked up a soft looking cloth that lay by his pillow, and began to lightly dab at his clammy temple.  
“You bloody prat,” she whispered. Then, as she brushed the cloth across his brow, Ron hummed. It was that clear, unassailable proof of his aliveness that got Hermione to uncurl her fists. She gasped.  
“Why don’t you sit down?” Ginny said to her, kindly.  
She did, blindly shuffling over to the closest chair, her gaze not shifting off Ron for even a fraction of a second.

That day, Hermione felt relief in an entirely new... sharp and shattering... way.

She watched him breathe in terror and wonder.

Fred and George joined Ron’s bedside gathering a few minutes later – apparently, they had been waiting to surprise Ron at Hogsmeade – and like Harry and Ginny, they were both extremely eager to talk about the mystery surrounding the ‘accident’. _Vultures_ , she thought gracelessly. She didn’t participate, only loosely following the discussion. It was mostly an endless regurgitation of the same old facts and speculations; it was all entirely pointless.

“So the poison was in the drink?” Fred asked for the second or third time.  
Harry jumped to answer with same alacrity every time: “Yes, Slughorn poured it out —”  
“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron’s glass without you seeing?”  
“Probably. But why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?”  
Ron’s lip twitched, and Hermione wished with all her might that her would open his eyes and frown grumpily at them with a “ _do you mind, I’m trying to recover from a near-death experience here!_ ”  
  
They went over the same stale questions: who was the poison really for, where did it come from, was Slughorn a Death Eater ( _honestly_ ), was Slughorn in danger…  
  
“But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny unnecessarily reminded Harry, “So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore.”  
“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” Hermione snapped before she could stop herself. Well, she didn’t snap so much as rasp… twelve hours of complete muteness was bound to have some effect. “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.”  
  
“Er-my-nee.”

Her heart stopped beating.  
They waited for Ron to say more… but all they got was some incomprehensible mumbling, before he simply started snoring.  
  
He’d said her name. _Her_ name. Of all things… it had been her name.

   
With a loud bang, the doors were thrown open, and Hagrid came stomping toward them, pulling Hermione away from her attack of sentimentality.  
“Bin in the forest all day!” he said; a fact that was corroborated by his damp hair, bearskin coat, the crossbow in his hand, and his mud-caked boots.  “Aragog’s worse, I bin readin’ to him — didn’ get up ter dinner till jus’ now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ Ron! How is he?”  
“Not bad. They say he’ll be okay,” Harry replied.  
“I don’ believe this. Jus’ don’ believe it… Look at him lyin’ there… Who’d want ter hurt him, eh?”  
“That’s just what we were discussing,” said Harry. “We don’t know.”  
“Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they?” Hagrid said with actual genuine concern. “Firs’ Katie, now Ron…”  
“I can’t see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team!” _Thank you, George_.  
“Wood might’ve done the Slytherins if he could’ve got away with it,” Fred joked.  
_For god’s sake._  
“Well, I don’t think it’s Quidditch,” Hermione interposed, “but I think there’s a connection between the attacks.”  
“How d’you work that out?” Fred asked, raising his eyebrows.  
“Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren’t, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed.” She faltered at that point, frowning as she thought out aloud, “Of course, that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don’t seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim.”

Alas, they didn’t get a chance to pursue this thought, as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley chose that moment to enter the ward. The first thing Mrs. Weasley did was engulf Harry in the hug, while sobbing, “Dumbledore’s told us how you saved him with the bezoar! Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny… you saved Arthur… now you’ve saved Ron…”  
Harry had turned the colour of ripe cherries. He clumsily tried to dismiss her, but Mr. Weasley had his own bit to add – “Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it. Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky day for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry.”

The cloying, mawkish display was not doing Hermione’s unaccommodating mood any favours. As much as she wanted to spend the night sitting by Ron’s bed, holding his hand, she chose to leave with Harry and Hagrid when Madam Pomfrey came by to remind them that Ron was allowed only six visitors at a time.

 

* * *

  
  
Hermione awoke from a deep, dreamless slumber and felt around for her watch in panic. It turned out to be one of those strange situations where she felt like she’d been asleep for ages, but really… it was just quarter to five in the morning.

It was completely pitch black outside. She shuffled out of bed and wrapped her warmest cloak around herself as silently as possible, so as to not disturb any of her dormmates.  
She crept up staircases, down hallways, and soon she was climbing the stairs of the murky tower where Sirius had been locked up, before Harry and she (and Buckbeak) had rescued him. It looked exactly the same, untouched by time – and time-turners. In the illusory dark, she could pretend Sirius was sitting crumpled in a shrouded corner. She walked over to the window to which they’d flown up to, remembering the look of supreme astonishment on his face when he saw them…  
All that was visible outside were a few flickering lights. If she unfocused her eyes, they bloomed into enormous spheres, and she could have been looking at the solar system.

Ron was alive, and life could go on.  
Hermione thought that perhaps it was time to gather abandoned half-thoughts, and piece together a theory about what had happened the day before. She didn’t think she could do worse than the collective mind-power of Potter, Weasley, Weasley, and Weasley.  
  
Someone had poisoned Slughorn’s bottle of mead, hoping it would reach Dumbledore. Most likely, Katie was supposed to deliver the cursed necklace to him as well. She was fairly certain that someone was hell bent on assassinating the headmaster. The motive wasn’t clear, but the most obvious and serious one would have something to do with Voldemort, and that exponentially intensified the gravity of both these incidents.  
When Hagrid (to Harry’s great glee) let slip the tidbit about Snape and Dumbledore’s argument, Hermione was struck by the sudden conviction that Dumbledore knew exactly who was behind these attacks, and yet was perfectly as peace with letting them continue their mission, albeit under Snape’s watchful eye.

A ‘mission’… Snape’s involvement…  
These factors brought her to a most discomforting conclusion: what if Harry was actually right? What if… What if it _was_ Draco Malfoy after all?  
Whether or not he had been officially branded a Death Eater was irrelevant; if he was out to kill Dumbledore, he was exactly as dangerous as Harry feared. But… was he? She had too many contrary ideas about him. He was egotistical, arrogant, and horrible. He could quote fucking _Shakespeare_ , and Theo swore he wasn’t unsalvageable. This was a boy she’d slapped silly once. The boy she could surely take down in a duel with her eyes closed.  
However, circumstantial evidence was still evidence, and she couldn’t think of a justifiable alternative.  
  
What a ghastly world they lived in. A simple, mediocre schoolyard bully could possibly turn out to be a diabolical killer – a ruthless minion of the most malevolent wizard alive. At the age of sixteen.

A weak hint of light was creeping up from behind distant shadowy trees. Hermione turned away from the window and began the long walk back to the Gryffindor tower. She told herself quite firmly that she _would_ be getting answers from Theo. He dare not prevaricate this time; Ron had nearly died.

Her mind raced, but her legs dawdled; it was nearly daybreak by the time she reached the sixth floor. As she rounded a corner…… she stopped short with a jerk, narrowly missing colliding with someone. She blinked disconcertedly at the black cloaked chest standing like a wall in front of her. When she looked up, her blood ran cold.  
His pale skin was stained with the dusty blue cast of early dawn. It brought out the deep purple rings around his eyes, and he looked like a bloodless Inferius. He was every bit as startled as she was, looking down at her in surprise, rather than the usual revulsion.  
Hermione was, honest to god, scared. With all the notions she had been entertaining, all she could think at that moment was... _he’s a killer_. She stood rooted to the ground, watching as surprise made way for loathing, as soon enough, Malfoy was proper sneering.  
Sneering, and (possibly, probably) capable of murder.  
  
  
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her wide, panicked stare away from his strange mist-and-steel eyes. He didn’t move either. They were trapped in a vortex of fear and odium, and... _move move move_... she remained inert.  
Would he pull out his wand? Would be spit abuse and vitriol? Would he physically assault her?  
He blinked twice, straightened his shoulders, walked around her... and away.

Hermione didn’t turn, even after the sound of his footfalls had faded. She took a few fortifying breaths, then half ran all the way back to her bed. She really, really hoped Harry wasn’t awake and having an early morning crack at his map.  
_‘Say, Hermione, I saw you and Malfoy having a showdown at dawn... did you find out what he’s up to?’_  
 _‘Oh, no, Harry! I was paralysed by irrational terror, so he just glared at me and left.’_  
 _‘Ha Ha! How quaint.’_

Goodness, she really had been paralysed, and completely sodding useless. _  
“...As if any of those twits could hurt_ _you_ _. Specially now, since you can crush all their bones with one casual hand gesture...”_  
She laughed to herself bitterly.

 

* * *

  
  
Ginny came sprinting towards Hermione and Harry as they were exiting the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom later that morning.  
“He’s awake,” she panted, “Ron’s awake!”  
  
  
Within an instant the three of them were dashing toward the hospital wing. Harry charged straight in, but Hermione stopped dead at the door, suddenly assailed by insecurity.  
“Herms?”  
“Yes... Ginny, I... you go on. Perhaps it’s best if I –”  
“You can’t be serious!” Ginny cried, “You _still_ don’t want to talk to him?!”  
“I don’t think he’ll want to talk to _me._ I just –”  
“Oh Morgan. Don’t be a stupid cow. Of course he will. Come on,” Ginny grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her inside.

Ron looked like... himself. His cheeks had regained their colour, his hair was shiny and shaggy, and he was laughing at something Harry had said... until he spotted her.  
His eyes got round and dimly apologetic, and his breathing picked up a touch. She wasn’t doing much better – the thrumming of her heart was sure to shatter her ribcage.  
“Hi.”  
“Hi, Ron.”  
Harry rolled his eyes. So did Ginny, but with a grin.  
“So. Um. Was, uh... was it really necessary to celebrate your birthday in such a terribly dramatic manner?”  
And he gave her that wide, puckish, _perfect_ grin. She could hear her blood rushing and churning about inside her.  
“You know me,” he quipped, “I never do anything by half.”  
“Except homework,” she reminded him, barely managing to fight against the pull of a manic smile to do so.  
“Except homework,” he agreed, laughingly.

Ginny jumped in then, listing out all the many, many, many things that Ron did by half. Harry and Hermione interjected occasionally. Ron gave them a sour look, but said very little besides the occasional, “almost died,” and “give me a bloody break”.

The banter and ridiculousness went on for a while, after which Ron was instructed to nap, and they had to leave. In that while, Hermione collected six full grins, two fond chuckles, and one secret, overwhelming, exhilarating, significant glance.

 

* * *

  
  
“Fucking finally. There you are!”

Hermione looked up from her essay and Theo smiled, setting his bag down on the table in their favourite quite corner of the library. He was wearing the scarf she’d gifted him. “I’ve been trying to catch hold of you all day. So, Weasley’s well out of the woods, then?”  
“Yes,” she replied, tersely.  
“That’s good. And I suppose things between him and you are all peachy again?”  
She glared, silently daring him to go on.  
“And that’s a yes. Brilliant. What a lucky break for him, in that case.”  
“Lucky?” she spat in disbelief.  
Theo shrugged, arranging his books and things in front of him.  
 “Are you okay?”  
“Fine.”  
He peered at her, looking annoyed. “Why the hell are you being so short with me?”  
“Oh, I don’t know. Why would I be? We’re _best friends_ , after all. So what if you’re constantly lying to me? We’re _buddies_ , you and I.”  
“Excuse me?” Theo retorted indignantly, “First of all, don’t ever use the word ‘buddies’ again. And secondly, I have _never_ lied to you. Not once.”  
“Oh, _really?_ ” Hermione shot back, incensed, “Okay, Theo... who put Ron in the hospital? Who poisoned that mead?”  
“How should I know?!”  
Hermione slapped both her palms down on the table. “Stop. Lying. _Tell me it was Malfoy_.”  
“It wasn’t,” Theo denied immediately, but Hermione saw his face blanch.  
“Stop ly –”  
“I’m NOT fucking lying. Why the buggering hell would Draco want to kill Weasley? He doesn’t _love_ him, sure, but he’s isn’t going to –”  
“It wasn’t Ron he was after. He made a mistake. Like he had earlier with Katie Bell.”  
Theo paled even further. “No. That wasn’t him. He... he wouldn’t... No. No.”  
“Either this is your worst attempt at perjury so far, or you’re up to your ears in denial,” Hermione snarked.  
  
He frowned at her in utter confusion and devastation. It was an expression she couldn’t quite label – was it horrified resignation, was it shocked disbelief? – all she knew was that it was raw and upsetting, and she instantly eased her hardened stance.  
“Theo,” she murmured, reaching out to lay her hand over his, “I do believe that you aren’t lying to me, alright? But you have to admit to harbouring certain... suspicions. You must have noticed... that is to say, with the way Malfoy’s been acting, the awful things that have been happening... what I mean is...” she felt distressingly inarticulate, “Look, you’re the closest to him. Surely you can muster something substantial, and we can put a stop to this madness.”  
“How?” Theo croaked, his eyes fixed on hers with disconcerting directness.  
“Um... well, we could talk to some of the professors...”  
He snorted. “Like who? Dumbledore? And he’ll do what...? Expel Draco? On the bases of a bit of farfetched guesswork?”  
“It isn’t all that farfetched,” Hermione grumbled. What _would_ Dumbledore do, though? All evidence pointed to the fact that he already knew... “Can’t you get Malfoy to admit...?”  
Theo pulled a face and looked away.  
“This is _serious,_ Theo!”  
“Oh, _really_?!” he replied, affecting a guise of facetious disbelief, “ _Serious_ , is it? Oh, dear me! I thought we were all just larking about! But it’s _serious_! Ah! Thanks for letting me know, Hermione.”  
Hermione threw up her hands, “Clearly you _are_ larking about! Do you honestly think keeping Malfoy’s nefarious secrets is more important than –”  
“Than _what_? Your insatiable curiosity?!”  
“It’s NOT about my sodding curiosity! Ron could have _died_!”  
“And Draco had nothing to do with it!”  
“You don’t know that,” Hermione hollered.  
Theo dragged his chair back loudly, making her cringe. He packed up his bag in a towering rage, while saying, “I’m sure pinning this shit on Draco is very convenient for your lot, but leave me the fuck out of it. I am not going to sit here and help you bolster such despicable allegations. Good night.”

And he left her with the coldest look he’d ever aimed her way. She growled under her breath; her anger, distress, and frustration boiled over, and she stood up to pace feverishly, in an effort to calm her nerves. How could he point-blank reject _everything_ she had set forth? There had to be a limit to personal loyalty when lives were at stake... when there were far bigger things at play...  
...It was TOO MUCH. Everything was TOO MUCH.

She circuited the medium sized library table until she was dizzy.

 

* * *

  
  
Of course, the day just had to end with a confrontation with Lavender Brown.

  
“Well, you’ve been out late,” she noted resentfully when Hermione walked into their dormitory.  
Hermione was in no shape to deal with such puerile cattishness. She ignored the huffy blond bint, and stomped straight into the bathroom, letting the door close with a slam. She stood under a stream of hot water for a long time. Steam swirled around her, laden with the scent of oranges and cinnamon.  
Oranges.... Dead oranges.  
_Woodcutter._  
 _Cut down my shadow._  
 _Deliver me from the torment_  
 _of bearing no fruit._

What a day.

Outside the bathroom, Lavender had been waiting for her with a face like thunder.  
“Where have you been all evening?” she demanded.  
Hermione shrugged offhandedly, sparing her a perfunctory half-glance before crawling into bed. Lavender got even more riled up at such cavalier treatment.  
“Where you with my Won-Won?” she yelled, marching right up to Hermione’s bed.  
“I did go see him, yes,” Hermione answered vaguely, as she looked over the stack of books on her bedside table, hoping to pick something diverting to end the day with.  
“WILL YOU PAY ATTENTION _?!_ ”  
Hermione gave her the exact look of mock surprise that Theo had displayed earlier. She knew from experience that it was bloody lethal.  
As predicted, Lavender seethed. “So you want to be his _friend_ again? He’s become the star of the school, and you’ve suddenly decided you want to make up with him?”  
“ _Star of the school_?!” Hermione laughed incredulously, “He was poisoned, you idiot. And yes, it put our differences in perspective –”  
“Oh, Please. Spare me that bullshit. You need to stay away from him!” Lavender fumed when Hermione laughed at that, “I’m serious! You stay away from him!”  
“Go away, Lavender. You have no business telling me what to do. If you have problems, go talk to Ron.”  
“Oh I will,” she avowed menacingly, “The _second_ he wakes up.”  
Hermione raised a brow, but decided not to bait the crazed termagant any further. “When he wakes up. Right.”

With pointed finality, Hermione wandlessly, wordlessly closed the curtains around her bed, shutting out Lavender... and the rest of the world.

* * *

 


	17. Seventeen

  
“McLaggen is a stonking great arsehole,” Harry grumbled, “I’m going to fix him onto the highest goalpost with a permanent sticking charm, and leave him there forever.”  
“Someone would notice, sooner or later,” Hermione said, regretfully, “he has a way of making himself known. I say we give him the Umbridge treatment...”  
Harry shuddered, “I’d rather not go _anywhere_ near those Centaurs again. Chuck us a chocolate frog, will you Ron?”  
“Sure. Well, I reckon he’ll take care of himself, gnormless troll that he is. All we’ll have to do is sit back and watch the show. You remember how he fucked up his trial, yeah?”  
Hermione blushed, immediately looking away from Ron, who was leaning back against the headboard of his sickbed with a dreamy smile on his face.  
“No, I’m pretty sure that was a onetime occurrence,” said Harry, pointedly. Hermione refused to look at him as well.  
“Hmmm,” she mused, pretending to be utterly transfixed by the play of sunlight on the ward curtains, “Want me to design a pimple-tattoo? I’m sure Dean will gladly chip in... We can create something really spectacular...”  
“Blimey,” Ron muttered, “Why do I keep forgetting how dangerous you are?”  
She arched an eyebrow at him. “If you’d like, I can conjure a bird or two to remind you.”

They were approaching dangerous territory. Ron visibly gulped, searching for something appropriate to come back with. Hermione stared at him in anticipation...  
Harry cleared his throat loudly. “I think it’s time to go, Hermione. Don’t want to be late for McGonagall.”  
“Right, yes,” she hastily stood up to leave, suddenly embarrassed, “Bye, Ron. We’ll come by again soon...”  
“Yeah,” he answered tetchily, “See you.”

  
Harry grasped her upper arms once they’d exited the hospital wing.  
“Listen. Hermione,” his eyes bore into hers, “Please, please, please –”  
“Let you get what you want this time?”  
“What?” he asked, blankly.  
She shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry. Go on...”  
He gave her a ‘ _jesus, you’re mental_ ’ look, and said, “Can you _please_ not fight with Ron again?”  
“Can _I_ not fight with _him_?! Well, excuse me, but –”  
“Yes, yes, I know, he’s um... but, just... please, Hermione. I’m asking you because you’re obviously the mature one here...”  
“Oh. Nice. Flattery. If this is how you appeal to Slughorn, it’s no wonder he hasn’t given up that memory yet.”  
“Cheap shot, Herms!”  
“Oh, bugger off.”  
  
They got stuck on a moving staircase, pulling them away from their destination. Hermione sighed in resignation, crossing her arms. Victim to the whims of a flighty flight of steps... wasn’t she suffering enough?  
Harry decided to take advantage of that gift of time, and pulled out the Marauder’s map. He shoved it away only moments after.  
“In the DADA classroom,” he huffed impatiently, “For fuck’s sake.”  
“Haven’t had a breakthrough yet?” she asked him in what she hoped was a casual manner.  
“No!” he wailed, “I’m bloody _stalking_ him, and still... nothing! I go out of my way to be where he is, and so far, all I’ve seen him do is walk between classes with various girls, or Nott... one time, I caught him having a row with Zabini, but they both shut up when I got close enough to hear. Oh, and once I caught him with his tongue down Parkinson’s throat.”  
“Lovely.”  
Harry made a sound of deep disgust, “And he’s disappearing more and more often. He’s almost never in bed, even when I check in the middle of the night, or way early in the morning...”  
Hermione twitched involuntarily, once again reminded of how lucky she was that Harry hadn’t been glued to his map ‘way early in the morning’ two days ago.  
“Hermione...” he continued, “I don’t think Nott is being completely honest with you.”  
_Oh shit._ She had been dreading this moment for a while.  
“He hasn’t got anything do with this,” she answered immediately.  
“Maybe,” he allowed, “But he has to know something. Maybe I should talk to him...”  
“ _What? No!_ ” she said in alarm. She was aghast at the mere thought.  
“Why not? If he really is on our side, he should be glad to help!”  
“Things aren’t so cut and dried, and you know that. I mean, of course Theo is on _our side_ as you put it... but he isn’t going to spy on his friend, who –”  
“Who’s a manky Death Eater! And surely if they’re so close, Malfoy must have told him some stuff!”  
“...He _hasn’t_. I... I trust Theo implicitly, okay? If he knew anything, he would –”  
“ _Would he_ , though?”  
“YES,” she stated emphatically, “Remember, Harry... the… _the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters_!”  
She knew it was absolutely awful of her to throw Sirius’ words in his face like that, but she was frantic. She needed to get him off Theo’s back.    
  
Harry was quiet after that.  
In a desperate bid to lighten to the mood, Hermione said, “You know, of all the ways in which the Dursleys mistreat you, depriving you of muggle music is probably the worst.”  
Harry gaped at her. “Yep. That’s definitely the worst.”  
“Oh god! I didn’t… that wasn’t what I…”  
He grinned slowly at her horrified expression, “Good thing I’m getting a heavy dose of the stuff thanks to Seamus’ gramophone, right?”  
“Yes,” Hermione muttered, mortified, “Remind me to put on The Smiths sometime. They’re a great guilty pleasure for moments of weepy self-indulgence.”  
“Oh yes please,” Harry intoned monotonously, “I could really do with some of that in my life.”

 

* * *

 

As usual, on Wednesday evening, Hermione sauntered over to the library to spend an hour absorbed in good, wholesome research with Padma. Keeping with the other girl’s Healerly ambitions, they’d been studying magical medicine in great depth.  
They met just outside the library doors, and walked over to their usual table, passing Madam Pince, who was actually feeling generous enough to offer them a ghost of a smile.  
Hermione passed over _Moste Potente Potions_ to Padma, and picked up _Important Modern Magical Discoveries,_ quickly flipping over to the section on medicinal inventions.

Fifty-six minutes later, she stretched. Something around her shoulder blades cracked audibly, causing her to grimace. She really hated when that happened.  
“Mind if I take off a bit early, Padma?” she asked, “I promised Neville I’d help him with his water-making charm.”  
“Sure. But, um...” Practical Padma had turned into Piteous Padma again that day after a long time, and Hermione was annoyed. “I was just wondering... er, my sister was telling me about how upset Lavender is about the fact that you and Ron are on speaking terms again...”  
“Your sister needs to find better things to do with her time than gossiping mindlessly,” Hermione said with a scowl.  
“Ha ha, oh yes, I agree. But, um... it’s true then?”  
Hermione arched her eyebrows, and bluntly began packing up to leave.  
“So you still... you’re still interested in him?”  
“I do believe that’s none of your business, Padma.”  
“It _is_ though!” Padma rushed out. Hermione looked at her in surprise, and saw that her face was flushed. “You need to know... you _have_ to know... You shouldn’t have to settle for him! You... you... you have options, alright!”  
“What,” Hermione breathed, startled, “are you talking about?”  
“I don’t do things out of the blue, Hermione,” Padma’s speech picked up momentum, and she kept her overbright eyes fixed on Hermione, “I think about everything. I always make sure. I know what I want before doing anything. It’s never impulsiveness, or alcohol, or… or…” she huffed in an agitated manner, “You have _options_.”  
Hermione felt an icy tremor make its way up her spine. She stared down at her hands that were clasped together on her lap: her stupid tiny and narrow hands, with their ink-stained fingers and uneven nails. She knew what she had to say next, and she dreaded it. She wished she would spontaneously disappear. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. She wished someone – _anyone –_ would rush over and demand she leave with them.  
Swallowing thickly, she said, “Maybe. But they aren’t options I would consider.”  
“…I see.”  
  
Hermione tentatively looked up from her hands, biting her lip, bracing herself…  
Padma had looked away. She had turned her face to the side, and Hermione could see that she was blinking desperately to keep the sheen in her eyes from leaking out.  
“I can’t do this anymore,” she declared hoarsely. “I’ve been trying really hard. I’ve been compartmentalising to the best of my ability, because I know what we’ve been doing is important, and it’s helped me a lot... but... I just _can’t_ do it anymore. I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
“I understand,” Hermione said softly. When Padma sniffed and nodded, she knew it was time for her to leave. There was something about that gesture that evoked farewells and finality.

When Hermione reached the Gryffindor common room, she told Neville she was feeling too unwell to study.  
“Since when has that ever stopped you?” he called out wonderingly to her back as she climbed up the stairs to her dormitory.

 

* * *

 

She felt completely out of sorts the next day. By early afternoon, guilt and disquiet had acquired a sombre note, and when she stepped out of Greenhouse two, she took an abrupt turn towards the lake, rather than going back into the castle. Nobody noticed her slip away; most people were excitedly discussing how large and dangerous the Venomous Tentacula plants had gotten. (Neville had been an unlikely hero that day, shielding an unsuspecting Hannah Abbott from being struck by a spore-ball by deflecting it with his watering can.)

  
The weather was atrocious. Immense grey clouds portended a brutal downpour, and the wind was beastly and cold, scraping at the skin of her nose and cheeks. Hermione tightened her muffler around her neck and walked to the edge of the lake. It rippled and churned, aggravated by currents of air.  
She was mesmerised by the cacophony of colours. Focusing on one isolated patch of water, she severed it from its surroundings and context until it was just a piece of marbled volatility and tremendous beauty: Thick grey streaks warped by shots of steel blue, celtic blue; thin frills of frothy white; a sudden bloom of deep gunmetal; blue and grey overlapping...  
Then an unexpected weight on her shoulders dragged her back into the real world.

“Hello, _buddy_.”  
Hermione looked up to her right. Theo’s nose was red, and his hair was tucked into his hat, baring his seldom-seen forehead. He was wearing the scarf again.  
“Hi,” she replied blandly, and was irrationally incensed when he presented her with a grin.  
“I’ve come to rescue you, fair princess! The elements are cruel and determined to drench and freeze you to death... but do not fret!” He spun them around with a jaunty turn, and keeping his arm around her, began briskly leading her back towards the castle.  
“What are you doing here?” she asked cantankerously.  
“I told you, I came to rescue –”  
“ _What are you doing here_?”  
He sighed, squeezing her into his side, and said, “I haven’t seen or heard from you in three days, Hermione. If you think you can give me the sulky silent treatment like you do to Weasley, you have another thing coming. I don’t care if you’re throwing the most awful, Merlin-be-damned wobbler. You cannot ignore me. It’s against the fundamental rules of our world. You can have a look in _Primordial Laws of Magic_. It’s right there – chapter one. You and I are simply not allowed to cold-shoulder each other.”  
“You and I specifically?”  
“Oh, yes.”

She didn’t know why she thought a disagreement with Theo would go the way it usually did with Ron, or Harry. Everything about her friendship with him was unprecedented. For once, the issue wasn’t being buried and ignored after a long, tormented period of silent fuming; Theo had acknowledged it, and wanted to move past it. They hadn’t been forced to reconcile over some death-defying situation. He had sought her out, and was being warm and silly and _himself_ , and she hadn’t had to do a thing.  
God. He was amazing.

Hermione planted her feet firmly onto the ground, bringing them to a halt. They turned to face each other in a strangely synchronised manner. He gave her an anxious, questioning look, and she responded by taking in a huge gulp of air, and... “Thank you.”  
“Huh?”  
“... _Thank_ _you_ , Theo. I didn’t know how...; I mean... You. You’re just... just...”  
He was visibly fighting a smile as he watched her. “ _Yes_ ,” he said, cutting short her moronic babbling, “I am. I know.”  
He sounded very smug, and Hermione allowed it. She also allowed him to pull her back under his arm, and pilot her across the grounds.  
  
They were only a few meters short of the entrance hall, when the corner of her eye saw a flash of... something... on Theo’s wrist, as it rested limply on her shoulder.  
“What’s this?” she enquired, moving to pull his sleeve back to have a proper look. At once, he tore his arm away from her and hid it behind his back.  
“Nothing!” he exclaimed, far too loudly, far too quickly.  
It was such an alarmingly extreme reaction.  
Hermione reared back, “What the hell?”  
“It’s nothing Hermione. Just a rash. Rather frightening looking one, I’m afraid. I don’t want to traumatise you...”  
“It most certainly did not look like a rash!”  
“It is... a rash...” Theo spluttered feebly.  
Hermione narrowed her eyes, and surged forward, tugging at his arm. “Let me see.”  
“No!” he fought against her, and unfortunately, battle of strengths were not her forte.  
“ _Theo!_ ”  
After a minute-long struggle, he relented. Greedily, Hermione pulled back his sleeve...  
  
He was wearing a bracelet. It was a rather chunky, obviously handmade one, consisting of some sort of iridescent pieces of bark strung together.  
“It’s Wiggentree bark, dusted with powdered moonstone,” Theo informed her snappily with a supreme blush on his face, “It’s supposed to be restorative and lucky, and it... wards off Blibbering Humdingers.”  
He was so, _so_ red. Hermione grinned ear to ear as she examined the bracelet. “It’s quite pretty,” she offered consolingly.  
Theo glared. “I like it.”  
“So do I!” she gushed, “I’ll be looking into the healing properties of this combination. Luna actually might be on to something.”

“You should tell her,” Hermione said after they’d resumed walking.  
His high colour hadn’t completely receded, and at that statement, it came right back into prominence. “Don’t be stupid,” he gritted out.  
“I’m not! You _should_ tell her. Come on, Theo... You know she feels the same way.”  
“Or she doesn’t. And she’ll laugh, or turn away, or... fuck. She might blame it all on some seedy little parasitic beasties that have colonised my brain, and then I’ll just _die_ , Hermione. I’ll fucking just _die_.”  
“Oh come now. She won’t do any of those things,” Hermione rebuked him playfully.  
“How can you be so sure of that?”  
“For god’s sake, Theo. Everybody knows I know _everything_.”  
He laughed and it was like he had done so in spite of himself. “Ah, yes. The biggest, most successful case of mass delusion that world has ever seen!”  
She pushed him, hard, and laughed as he exaggerated his resulting stumble.

He tucked her under his (bracelet-free) arm, and pulled her along up the wide marble staircase, offering a wide, shit-eating grin to a cluster of fourth year Slytherins that had stopped to stare at them.

 

* * *

 

It was no wonder, with all the ups and downs and emotional turmoil she was experiencing, that she should forget that Harry and Ginny had quidditch practice that evening.

Hermione was genuinely shocked to find nobody else at Ron’s bedside when she went to visit him. He looked up at her, equally startled, and they gawked at each other in silence.  
  
“Oh,” she gasped, after a stretch.  
“Hey,” he mumbled uncomfortably.  
Keeping her eyes lowered, she gingerly settled on the side of his bed. “How are you feeling?”  
“Fine,” he said blankly. Then he shook his head, and after taking a moment to gather his wits, went on, “ _Bored._ I wish Pomfrey would let me out of here already. I’m going mad staring at the ceiling all day.”  
“Oh stop,” she said with a laugh, “You have enough people coming by to keep you company.”  
“Eh,” he grunted dismissively, “Neville looked in yesterday. Ginny and Dean were here in the afternoon, but like Harry, they don’t really have time...” he suddenly grinned euphorically, “McLaggen’s giving them hell.”  
“I’ve heard. Many times. Many, many, many times.”  
“Yeah well, if that dowdy, dried up old matron would just let me out....”  
“ _Ron!_ ” she chastised, but he saw through her facade of disapproval and laughed.  
“Anyway. Point is, I’m bored to death, Hermione. I don’t s’pose you could come by more than once a day? I survived being poisoned; it’ll be really sad if boredom kills me.”  
Predictably, she felt hot and bothered after his endearing request. “If I do that, I’ll bring homework. Assignments. Tons and tons of thick, dusty books...” she warned.  
He laughed again, and she wondered if he was in this good a mood when other people visited him. “And that might kill me too. Bugger it all, looks like I’m doomed to die one way or another.”  
Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.

He certainly looked completely healthy. Right then, he was her favourite version of Ron Weasley: that lovely, dishevelled ginger hair, that easy smile, and best of all, those twin orbs of cerulean splendour beaming down at her, glowing like they were backlit. He was warmth, comfort, and an unexpected jolt to the heart. She wanted (and how she _wanted_ ) to curl up by his side, breathe in the smell of his skin, have him turn around and cup her face, kiss her forehead, kiss her cheeks, kiss her...  
_Ahem._  
They both looked away from each other awkwardly.

“So, um... Lavender must come to see you often enough?”  
Ron grimaced; “I donno. I mean, sure, she must... but I think I was asleep and missed her.”  
She looked at him sceptically, “Every time?”  
“Er, yeah.”  
“Right. Well, I guess I’ll go now...” she burbled, standing up slowly.  
“Hermione, wait!” His hand shot out and grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her down unceremoniously.  
“Ow, Ron!”  
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he rushed out, “You, erm... alright?”  
“Yes,” she said, more curiously than curtly, “What’s the matter?”  
“Listen,” he started, “I wanted to say...” he puckered his brow earnestly, “...er, these past few months have been total bullocks. I’ve umm missed you.”  
Not _quite_ an apology, but he was making those solemn, penitent eyes at her, and seriously... was she still solid?  
“I’ve missed you too, Ron.”  
He smiled, pleased and relieved. Did he know he was still holding on to her wrist? With the way his thumb was slowly tracing her veins, he probably did. And he _definitely_ knew exactly what he was doing to her pulse.  
“One more thing...” he murmured, “This thing with you and Nott...”  
“What about it?” she asked guardedly.  
“Are you... I mean, are he and you... _together_?”  
“He’s my friend. A _very_ good friend, but that’s all.”  
“How the hell did this happen, Hermione?” His ears were turning redder by the second – a sure indication of his temper.  
Hermione bristled. “It doesn’t matter how it happened. He’s my friend, and he’s a wonderful person; that’s all you need to know.”  
“Look, Harry and Ginny told me he’s uh... okay, and that I shouldn’t get up in your face about it. Ginny threatened me something awful over the hols,” he laughed humourlessly, “I just want to understand...”  
She sighed. “He needed to distance himself from his family and its associations, so he sought me out, because he knew I’d listen. And I _did_ listen, and... I’ve gotten to know him really well, Ron. He’s important to me. Just like you’re important to me.”  
Ron didn’t seem to appreciate the parallel at all. He scowled, and took a moment to collect himself.  
  
“He’s still friends with Malfoy.”  
“Yes.”  
“And Malfoy’s fine with him being your friend?”  
“Yes.”  
“You’re fine with Nott being friends with a tosser who thinks you’re scum?”  
“Yes. Just like he's fine with me being friends with people who think _he’s_ scum.”  
“Are you friends with Malf –”  
 “ _Absolutely not._ ”  
“Alright.”  
“...Alright...?”  
“Yeah. I mean, he was never as bad as Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and the rest of that lot. And Harry’s vouched for him.”  
Of course. The Potter Certificate of Approval was all Ron ever needed. Nonetheless, she pushed down her resentment and said, “Thank you.”  
He smiled again and squeezed her wrist affectionately. “Maybe he’ll give out the Slytherin team’s secrets. Make it easier for us to hammer them in the next match.”

She sat with him for another hour, until Madam Pomfrey came around to send her away her. She floated out the door.

 

* * *

 

  
  
The Gryffindor quidditch team wore a fascinating variety of aggrieved looks on their faces when they joined the rest of their house at dinner. All except Cormac McLaggen, that is.  
He loomed over Harry as he trailed behind him, talking his ear off.  
“...thing is, Potter, you’re not using your beaters to their full potential. Now if I was captain, I’d have ‘em both circle the outer –”  
“You’re not the bloody captain,” Harry snapped, plonking down opposite Hermione, “Now let me eat in peace.”  
McLaggen didn’t bite back – he was too busy leering at Hermione. “Watcha, Granger,” he said slickly, sliding onto the bench next to Harry, who looked livid, “Long time no see.”  
“Yes, well, looks like my luck’s run out.” She glowered fiercely at him, a look which usually left her peers quaking in their boots. However, it appeared that McLaggen was too stupid to comprehend its dangers.  
“Aw, you don’t mean that, doll.”  
Dean, Ginny, Demelza and Neville were chortling into their plates. Hermione looked down at hers – it was still partially piled up with food. But nothing – not even the prospect of pudding – was worth spending another second in the company of that unrepentant letch. She rose smoothly and walked towards the doors leading out of the Great Hall.  
McLaggen garbled a few words around a mouth full of food, she flipped him a dismissive V-sign, and Ginny put down her fork and applauded.  
  
Nobody witnessed the pièce de résistance, though. She’d wandlessly, non-verbally tied his shoelaces together.

 

* * *

  
  
_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.  
  
_ Hermione had honestly lost count of the number of times she’d reread the brilliant first chapter of _A Tale of Two Cities._ But this time, it pulled at some deeply visceral part of her, and her reaction went beyond a profound appreciation of the artful spin of words – it was _her_ time, age, epoch, and season at play here. Dickens was using these words to set the tone for the rest of his novel - to lay an ominous shadow across his reader’s consciousness… well, she felt that dread towards her here and now. He’d unwittingly stomped all over her grave.  
  
_The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there._

Hermione shuddered, burrowing deeper under her quilt.

“Hermione. _Hermione!_ ”  
Someone outside her bed-iverse was calling for her, and she chose to take the noble path of feigning sleep.  
“ _Hermione!_ ” _  
_ Her curtains were brutally, callously pulled apart, and a breathless Parvati stared down at her recumbent form.  An involuntary spasm shook her at the sight... they were identical twins after all. That guilt she’d been carrying around all day intensified. She promptly sat up; “What is it?”  
Parvati looked acutely unnerved. “You’re pretty good friends with my sister, aren’t you?” she asked urgently.  
“Er...” _  
_ “Did she talk to you about Anthony Goldstein?” Parvati was too agitated to bother waiting for replies to any of her questions, “Did she mention anything about fancying him? Do you think it’s been going on for longer than she’s letting on? Did she –”  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Hermione cut in, “What on earth are you talking about?”  
“ _Padma_ is apparently going out with Anthony Goldstein! Did you know? I mean, she did tell me that he was, like, constantly pestering her, but I was so sure she wasn’t interested... and now Romilda just told me that Aisha just told her that she heard Mandy telling Terry that they’re together. And _she_ asked _him_ out! I can’t believe this!” she stomped her foot on the ground like a toddler throwing a snit.  
Hermione was staggered. Well... that was one way to cope, she supposed. It was much like the advice she’d given Ginny over a year ago...  
_  
_ “Well, um... good for her, I guess...”  
“ _Good for her_ _?!_ ” Parvati choked, “No, this is not _good_. My own sister, and she didn’t think to tell me that she’s planning to get herself a boyfriend. Oh Merlin! She has a boyfriend. My prudish, swotty sister has a boyfriend, and... and... I’m just going to be alone forever!”  
  
She was on the brink of an utterly fatuous meltdown, and Hermione was too bleeding tired to deal with anything of that sort.  
“Good grief, Parvati. Get a grip. And look at yourself, you can easily get yourself a boyfriend if you’re gagg- _ahem_ -so keen on it. I know for a fact that Seamus is –”  
“Don’t make me cry, Hermione. Seamus? Are you serious?! He might end up making me explode if I get him too excited, like... you know...” _  
_  
Hermione couldn’t help it. She pictured the scene: Parvati and Seamus are wrapped up in an embrace, snogging heavily. He has her against a wall, and she has her hands in his hair, and it’s getting more and more heated... suddenly... _ka-boom!_... and there’s empty space where Parvati’s head once was. Seamus is covered in bits of brain and skull and blood. He blinks, looking stunned. “ _Cor_...” he says. _  
_  
The image was enough to break her overwrought composure – Hermione threw back her head and laughed till she felt tears leaking out of her eyes. Sometime in the middle of her fit, Parvati had closed her curtains violently (and with a muted shriek), and marched away while ranting irritably and incomprehensibly.    
Eventually, her laughter mellowed into soft chuckles... and then died down entirely. What followed was quiet, and not just in her surroundings; her mind had mellowed. She welcomed the lull with tremendous gratitude. As she slowly succumbed to sleep, she thought back to the summer she’d spent in the south of France with her parents, when she was thirteen. She saw her mum and dad sitting on a blanket under the sun, against a backdrop of the rugged mountains of Provence that Cezanne had immortalised. They were laughing at nothing in particular while feasting on cheese and wine, and the last thought Hermione had was... _it was the best of times._

 

* * *

 


	18. Eighteen

**  
**

Hermione walked slowly out of the hospital wing after another successful one-on-one stint with Ron. She had given him a belated birthday present – a dragon skin wallet that she had imbued with anti-theft wards and a charm that would have it leap back into his pocket should he ever accidentally drop it.   
“Cool!” he had exclaimed with a pleased grin, and then they’d passed the time agreeably, engaging in small talk and pleasantries, with Ron giving her his own humorous account of Christmas at the Borrow, followed by a short (and entirely useless) discussion on what horcruxes could be.   
And yet... Hermione wasn’t feeling the giddy euphoria she expected to. There was a bothersome niggling sense of dissatisfaction swirling in her gut, and she frowned at herself in perturbation. Much to her frustration, her next lesson was over an hour away – there was nothing to distract her thoughts from travelling down a path she really preferred they stay away from.   
Her mind was a bustling, hyperactive, never-stagnant bundle of neuronal confetti, constantly engaged in processing, planning, imagining, contextualising, reasoning... Ron’s simplicity was exactly the respite she ought to crave. He was uncomplicated. Comfortable.  
 ...Stultifying.   
Hermione sighed uneasily. He didn’t actually give her any respite, did he? Rather, he frequently gave her the additional baggage of emotional and psychological trauma, and that... well, she really had no damn time for that. How many people had tried to tell this to her – and how many times? Why did she still... STILL... it made no sense...   
_‘Love int s’posed ta make sense, ya meff!’_ She heard her obnoxious cousin Charlotte’s voice clear as day in her head.   
Oh, _why_ was she letting herself get worked up when they had only just re-established their camaraderie? It was fine. Ron still had a girlfriend, anyway. ...And there it was: that painful twist in her stomach.   
It was official: She was a complete basket case. She needed an intervention, extensive therapy, and a short spell in a padded cell.

Outside, the turbulent conditions had calmed somewhat, with the sun sporadically and arbitrarily emerging from behind thick clouds. It was like the weather gods had grudgingly decided to take pity on their mortal playthings – _‘Peace, wee worms, there is hope still! Perhaps you truly shall see spring again someday.’_   
Hermione found herself approaching the quidditch stands, dimly remembering Ginny telling her that the Gryffindor team had practice scheduled sometime that afternoon. Perhaps she could watch them; maybe practice a few harmless non-verbal spells on McLaggen..........   
......With the panicked haste of a small animal sensing a predator, she cast a disillusionment charm on herself and then ducked behind a post for good measure. In the near distance, two brooms touched onto the ground, and two figures gracefully leapt off them.   
Hermione peered from behind the post, and watched Theo pull the bluegreen scarf she had so painstakingly woven out of his pocket and wrap it around and his neck, while he grinned at Malfoy. They walked across the pitch in her general direction, both with windswept hair, shining eyes, and flushed faces.   
Theo said something to Malfoy that caused the latter to toss his head back and laugh, his hair glinting as the sun made one of its random appearances. Then Malfoy said something back, which had Theo laughing as well. They were both chuckling and walking, as if they were just two regular young wizards in high spirits after an invigorating spin on their brooms.   
Clinging tightly onto the post as they walked by her, Hermione could hear Theo talking: “...believe he actually thought it was a sound investment! For fuck’s sake, what kind of a sodding pillock would think that was a good idea? I mean, sure, pepper imps are plenty popular, but there isn’t a chance of them burning through the roof of your mouth, no matter how many you eat. And why on earth would –”   
“Do you even _realise_ you’re talking, Theo?” Malfoy asked with a smirk, “I swear you’d just go on nattering for-fucking-ever, if there was no one to stop you...”   
And then they had gone past her.   
Hermione stared at the back of their heads – caramel and spun gold – with profound discomfiture. _This_ was the person Theo was so desperate to protect: the person who made him laugh, who laughed with him – his friend; his “brother”. This person was a complete stranger to her.   
She had been, and always would be, an active opponent of the ‘everything is black or white’ worldview. Objective, she knew it wasn’t possible for Malfoy to be nothing beyond the snarling, hateful, dimensionless bigot she knew him to be. It was why, in spite of everything, she hadn’t stopped giving Theo books for him. The fact that there was some secret, miniscule part of him that was susceptible to the power of good literature gave her long-suffering idealism something to chew on.   
Even so, the scene she had just witnessed gave her pause. It didn’t absolve Malfoy of anything, of course... but it worked to further strengthen her compassion for Theo. He was stuck in such a horrible, impossible position.   
They were all stuck in such horrible, impossible positions.   
She pictured grossly twisted, paralysed bodies. Frozen screaming faces. Pain and horror. A horse in agony... the head of a bull... Picasso’s _Guernica_.

Hermione was pulled away from her morbid musings with the arrival of the Gryffindor quidditch team. They appeared to be completely engrossed in strategising, not noticing her at all.   
“Hi, Harry,” she said loudly.   
Harry jumped about a foot in the air, and then spun around in a wild circle. “Whozere?!”   
The rest of the team had similarly spooked expressions as they turned this way and that.   
Oh right. She was still disillusioned.   
She undid the charm with a sheepishly mumbled word of apology. Harry gawped for a couple of strained seconds, before marching right up to her and angrily demanding, “Why are you constantly trying to give me a heart attack? Don’t you think there are enough people trying to kill me already?”   
“I said I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I forgot I had disillusioned myself.”  
Ginny popped out from behind Harry and asked, “Why the hell were you standing out here all by yourself and _invisible_ at one-thirty in the afternoon?”   
“Er... I was... thinking...” Hermione replied idiotically.   
Harry and Ginny stared at her like that one sentence had robbed them of all their faith in her sanity forever.   
“Anyway,” she said awkwardly, “I should get going. I have to –”   
“Well, well. Look who it is! Come to watch me play, doll?” McLaggen strutted over to her side, flashing a disgusting half-grin.   
“No,” she asserted coldly, and left.   
  
Hermione was done with interacting with humans for the day. Quite thoroughly _done_. What she needed now was a deliciously complicated book, and six to eight hours of complete solitude. She checked her watch – thirty-five minutes till her Ancient Runes lesson. Best make the most of it.   
  


* * *

 

As the newest couple in the castle, Padma and Anthony were causing quite a stir. Infinitely more dignified than Ron and Lavender had ever been, they cut through crowded corridors holding hands and seeming perpetually immersed in some riveting discussion or the other.   
They were both quite tall, and with her long dark hair and his burly built, they made a striking pair.   
As it happened one evening, Hermione was climbing down the same flight of stairs that they were climbing up, and since preoccupation was a common affliction for all three of them, they only ended up locked in a silent and startled staring match around the middle of the staircase. Rather, it was Anthony who was silent, Hermione startled, and Padma was staring.   
Five, six, seven, seconds passed.

Hermione offered them both a sudden, snappy nod each, then recommenced her decent. She didn’t look back, they didn’t say a word, and later, at dinner, she ate two large slices of chocolate tart.  
  


* * *

 

Since only twelve sixth year students had opted to take Arithmancy that year, all four houses sat for lessons together.   
It was eleven-thirty at night, and those twelve students gathered in the astronomy tower where Professor Vector waited for them with four glorious brass telescopes. She quickly divided them into groups of three, and launched what was undoubtedly one of Hermione’s favourite lessons of all time. Combining the laws of trigonometry with Hellenistic astrology was exhilarating – she sat with a piece of parchment doing rapid calculations, while Sue Li from Ravenclaw peered through a telescope, and Roger Malone from Hufflepuff neatly tabulated the results. They were a proficient team, and they had the entire Monomoiria charted within an hour.   
Professor Vector checked their work and said, “Very well,” (which coming from her was praise beyond comprehension,) “By the next lesson, I expect ten predictions derived from these calculations. And read pages 45-78 from volume five of Valens' _Anthology_.”   
Once, in a transfiguration lesson years and years ago, Professor McGonagall had told her class to read the first ten pages of _Early Transfiguational Arts_. Eleven year old Hermione had turned to her neighbours and said, “Of course, _I’ll_ be reading the entire book....”   
Seventeen year old Hermione nodded and said, “Yes, professor,” while thinking, _of course, I’ll be reading the entire book_.   
Oh, how age mellows a girl down.

Professor Vector moved onto the next group. When Sue turned to Roger and asked him if he was excited about his house’s match against Gryffindor the next day, Hermione immediately tuned them out. She gently massaged her cramped fingers and walked over to the opposite side of the tower, where she leaned against the rampart and observed the rest of her classmates. Anthony and Padma had teamed up with Terry Boot. Next to them, Michael Corner, Wayne Hopkins, and Sally Smith were arguing heatedly over their calculations. The final group consisted of Tracey Davis, Lisa Turpin, and Draco Malfoy, and they seemed to have completed the assignment as well.   
Lisa and Tracey, with their shoulders hunched against the wind, were pleasantly chitchatting. Malfoy’s posture couldn’t be more different – straight and impeccable in that ‘would you just look at how well-bred I am’ regal way, he stood apart at a distance; aloof. He wasn’t even wearing a cloak, as though the bitter chill wasn’t affecting him in the slightest. With his stark white shirt and his pale hair, he shone like a beacon against the dark sky, as he gazed out into the endless night. Clearly, no one had ever warned him about the dangers of getting into a staring match with the abyss.

“Hi.” Terry Boot had abandoned his partners and come to stand next to her. “Mind if I join you? I’m a bit sick of being the third wheel over there,” he gestured towards Padma and Anthony with a tilt of his head.   
Hermione forced out a laugh, “I hardly think they’d do anything to make you uncomfortable.”   
“No, but they’re definitely giving out some serious please-leave-us-alone vibes. Makes a bloke feel really unwanted, you know?”   
Her laughter was more genuine this time.   
“So,” he continued, “Good lesson, eh?”   
“Oh yes,” she replied enthusiastically, “Arithmancy keeps getting more and more fascinating.”   
He grinned, running a hand through his hair, “It does. And you should know I’ve upped the ante. You might not have as easy a time topping this term. I reckon you’ll need to add a good three minutes to your daily study schedule to beat me.”   
“Oh please,” she chided, simultaneously flattered and flustered. She’d only ever spoken to Terry a small handful of times... he always found a way to compliment her every time. She really wished she knew what to do with compliments.   
“It’s true. You know it is. It’s bloody aggravating, alright? There are no less than six ‘ _I hate Hermione Granger’_ clubs in Ravenclaw. They’ve even attached your picture on the dart board in our common room.”   
“Oh _really_? How perfectly lovely. Um... you have a dartboard in your common room?”   
“Sure. Everybody needs a good way to unwind. And we enjoy flinging small, pointy objects at your face. What do you Gryffindors do?”   
Hermione bit her lip to stop herself from doing something atrocious, like giggling. “We have a gramophone, and tend to spontaneously break into dance.”   
He laughed, and the spots of light from nearby candles danced charmingly in his hazel eyes. “You dance? I mean, do _you_ dance?” He waited for her to nod in confirmation, “ _Well_. Mark this moment as the only time I’ve ever wished I was in Gryffindor.”   
She really hoped the sound she made was more of a chuckle than a giggle.

 

Things were so _strange_ this year.   
As she made her way back to the Gryffindor tower, Hermione pondered over the many ways in which her world had suddenly opened up. She couldn’t understand how she had gone from being lonely and unapproachable to... this... to... whoever she was now. Yes, whoever, whatever; she wasn’t going to spiral into an existential crisis over it. She only had a small window of time to just _be_ , before grave and serious eventualities became her life.   
For now, she would embrace this barmy new reality. The next time Terry came to talk to her, she might even flirt back.  
  


* * *

 

 

“...oh my, Smith has lost the Quaffle again. That’s the eighth time so far. He isn’t a very good player, is he? I think he’s suffering from a terrible fit of Loser’s Lurgy... he does look quite sickly...”

Hermione guffawed and cheered along with the rest of her house while Zacharias Smith bared his teeth at Luna. Whoever had picked her to commentate was a genius. Hermione had never enjoyed a quidditch match more.

“...Cadwallader is flying towards the Gryffindor goal posts again... but look at that cloud behind him! Looks rather like a tap-dancing niffler...”

“She’s _brilliant_ ,” Neville yelled over the roaring crowd. Hermione beamed at him in agreement. She really wanted to see Theo at that moment. His grin was probably putting the Cheshire cat to shame.

“...Smith’s new hairstyle makes him look rather like a plimpy...”

Delightful commentary aside, there was little else good about the game. McLaggen was proving to be – predictably – an unmitigated disaster. He was everywhere except where he should have been. Hermione could tell, despite the vast distance between them, that Harry was absolutely fuming. Ginny, Demelza, and Dean were trying their best, but it was forty minutes into the game and the score was a dismal –

“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” Professor McGonagall shouted into Luna’s megaphone.   
“Is it, already?” Luna wondered with mild surprise, “Oh, look! The Gryffindor Keeper’s got hold of one of the Beater’s bats.”

And indeed, McLaggen the lug had taken custody of Peakes’ bat, and was brandishing it about like a deranged showman. Harry was zooming towards him, yelling bloody murder… _just_ as McLaggen swung the bat…  
Hermione’s shriek of horror was drowned out by the various loud reactions emitted by the other spectators. The bludger had whizzed like a rocket and hit Harry straight on the head. The moment of impact was sickening; and then Harry fell off his broom. Hermione was on her feet in an instant, fumbling for her wand.   
Luckily, Coote and Peakes caught him before he hit the ground. He hung limply in their arms as they floated him down and laid him on the ground. A stretcher was summoned, and Harry was promptly levitated to the hospital wing.   
Bile sat suspended in Hermione’s throat. Seeing Harry pale and unconscious felt far too much like a premonition. _For neither can live while the other survives._ Hermione sat back down slowly, trembling, and the racket and clamour around her dimmed to a dull and endless whistle.

“Hermione? Hermione, come on... game’s over.”   
She let Neville lead her through the swarm. Apparently, the Hufflepuff seeker had caught the snitch, and the whole lot of them was celebrating like it had been a fair win.   
They met Ginny just outside the changing rooms, and she looked enormously furious.   
“Let’s go see Harry,” she barked, dragging Hermione along by the wrist. Neville got left behind somewhere among the sea of bodies.   
  
“Er, Ginny... slow down?” Hermione broached tentatively.   
“Sorry,” she grumbled.   
“Are you okay?”   
“Of _course_ I’m not okay! We lost the match. Harry let himself get hit like a prat. McLaggen knocked a bludger at him like a prat. And Dean thought the whole thing was _funny_ , the bloody, bloody prat.”   
Hermione held her tongue the rest of the way.

Harry was still unconscious when they reached him, and Ron greeted them with a cheery nod, all the while gorging on sweets.   
“How’did haffen?” he enquired with a full mouth. Hermione felt her lip curl, but she dutifully retold the events of the past hour.   
“So McLaggen really fucked it up...” Ron was tickled.   
“Just hurry up and get out of here so that we can get rid of him,” Ginny groused, “Coote and Peakes tore him to shreds, but it didn’t affect him at all. _Prat_. Ugh. I just knew today was going to be an utter crock of shit. First McLaggen, then all this bloody wind, Harry barely making the game on time, and then –”   
“Wait,” Ron barged in, “He barely made it? How come? He left here early enough.”   
“He was rambling on about Malfoy and a couple of girls... I’m not sure, I wasn’t really listening...”

Since Harry was showing no indication of waking up any time soon, and Ginny began complaining about crippling hunger, the two girls left for the Gryffindor common room, where post-match snacks would indubitably have been laid out.

They walked in silence, lost in their own thoughts till Ginny suddenly spoke up: “Do you think he fancies Malfoy?”   
“Huh?”   
“Harry, I mean. Do you think he fancies Malfoy?”   
“WHAT? ...I’m sorry... You’re joking, aren’t you...? _What_?”   
“He’s so obsessed with him! I’ve never seen him like that about anyone else.”   
“Ginny! He’s absolutely convinced that Malfoy is up to no good, that’s all! Not all obsessions are a manifestation of secret romantic feelings!”   
“I know that,” said Ginny, with a pinched expression on her face, “It could simply be burning, burgeoning lust. And Malfoy seems pretty obsessed with Harry too...”   
“Oh _god._ That is beyond twisted. They genuinely loathe each other. You honestly think it’s just a front and that they’re secretly having a roaring affair right in front of our noses?!”   
Ginny shrugged sullenly, “Or it’s just denial.”   
“ _Fuck._ You’re batty. And you clearly have a seriously disturbed imagination. Honestly, the whole acrimony-masking-blazing-desire-leading-to-torrid-hate-sex is a clumsy and ignorant cliché,” Hermione rolled her eyes exasperatedly, “On another note, have you seen the way Harry looks at you?”   
She got another shrug in response. Hermione shook her head in disbelief, wondering about the harmful psycho-somatic effects of an overdose of absurdity.

Thing was, while Hermione firmly stood by her disdain for Trelawney’s fondness for envisaging doom, she couldn’t help her own staunch acceptance of Sod’s Law.   
_Of course_ , Theo would be waiting for her on the third floor. They had planned to meet after the match, after all. Harry’s ordeal had made her forget about her Ancient Runes homework. God, that boy was going to ruin her.   
“Hermione! Oi. _Buddy_!” Theo stopped short when he noticed the redhead beside her.   
“ _Buddy?!_ ” Ginny snorted. Hermione flushed.   
“Weren’t we supposed to go to the library about now?” Theo asked Hermione with a frown.   
“Yes, er, sorry... slipped my mind...”   
“It’s okay, Hermione,” Ginny chirped, suddenly in high spirits, “You go on. I’ll just grab some food and join you both in a bit.”   
Hermione and Theo gaped at her.   
“What?” she asked innocently, “I think it’s time him and I got to know each other. We’re both your _buddies_ , after all.”   
Yes, too much absurdity was fatal. Hermione was sure of it. She was now a washed out ghost watching Ginny’s hair dance as she bounded away from them. She would presently go join Myrtle in her bathroom and pass the rest of her days wailing and moaning.

“Well. This ought to be interesting,” Theo quipped.   
He spent the journey to the library raving about Luna’s dazzling commentating skills. Hermione nodded absently, not paying much attention. Her stomach was full of lead-coated knots, and it wasn’t because she was worried that Theo and Ginny wouldn’t get along – he was eminently likable, and she was buckets of fun. In fact, Hermione was sure that they’d get along fantastically... and that thought was what made her feel vaguely sick. The bottom line was this: she was not ready to share Theo. His relationships with Luna and Malfoy didn’t bother her; those were completely separate dynamics at play. But Ginny could – and _would_ – become his friend. She was exciting, much more so than Hermione, and what if... if Theo ended up preferring her company...   
Her insecurity was beastly and insuppressible. She had only just found her perfect friend.   
She was not not _not_ ready to share him.  
  


* * *

 


	19. Nineteen

* * *

 

 

Disappointment plus self-pity plus fury was a frightfully distressing combination for one young witch to deal with.

It began with yet another abortive Apparition lesson. Hermione was simply not accustomed to _failing;_ yet there she was, crashing over and over and over again. Even the partonus charm had conceded to her skill and resolve after no more than six tries.  
And so, she stomped out of the Great Hall in a right temper, carrying with her the fourth ‘D’ (of which condescending old Twycross had spoken nothing about) – disappointment. Crushing, maddening disappointment.

She sat stewing by the lake, running her fingers through the luxuriant grass on the shore. Since it was a Saturday and the weather was almost pleasant, there were a fair number of students out and about. A few meters away, a group of seventh years – two boys, three girls – had bravely waded into the unquestionably cold water, and were splashing about like imbecilic toddlers. Hermione was quite sure that the primary motive behind that exercise was getting the girls’ shirts wet.  
A few minutes later, she spotted Theo and Ginny strolling along the edge of the lake and towards her. Together.  
Her throat developed a dense, hard, pumpkin-sized lump.  
Ginny was grinning in that saucy, teasing way of hers, and Theo was looking down at her, amused.

“Merlin, Herms,” Ginny exclaimed, settling down next to her, “We’ve been looking for you for ages!”  
_Ages_ , Hermione thought uncomfortably. Something close to panic was spinning within her.  
“Hold on. _Herms?!_ ” Theo said with a look of wicked delight, “ _Herms?_ You let her call you _Herms_?”  
“She does what she wants,” Hermione mumbled. They both ignored her.  
“Fuck off,” Ginny said good naturedly, “ _You_ call her _buddy_...”  
“Excuse me, I was just taking the piss. Hermione is the one who said it first!”  
“Pshaw! That’s a likely story....”

And that was how self-pity came into the mix.  
The night after they’d “studied” together in the library, Hermione couldn’t sleep. Ginny had come in fully determined to be **Friendly** (yes, with a capital F), and so she had been. Theo evidently suffered from obsessive compulsive charisma; Hermione watched with dismayed horror as he brought out the same flirtatious, playful side of him that he had used to charm _her_ so many months ago.  
Just like that evening, Hermione once again felt an overwhelming urge to cry.  
Theo and Ginny were tossing wisecracks from one to the other like they were caught in an extremely intense tennis rally, and it was utterly _wretched,_ the way she just wasn’t able to bring herself to break in and assert her existence.  
Why had they sought her out in the first place? Clearly, she wasn’t needed here at all.

And then came fury, bringing with it an impulsive undercurrent of _fuck it_ , which coerced Hermione into performing a small act of self-sabotage. She stood up and walked away.  
“Wha – hey, where are you going?”  
She glanced over her shoulder at Theo as he sat up from his semi-recumbent lounging. “I just remembered I have some Arithmancy homework left to do. I’ll see you later,” she said, her voice high-pitched and feverish. She’d only taken a few more steps before she felt his hand on her arm, and he turned her around to face him again.  
“Are you okay, Hermione?” he peered at her with concern.  
“Yes,” she replied, and when she saw he looked unconvinced, she added, “Apparition is getting on my nerves, I suppose.” He didn’t withdraw his hand, nor his frown.  
Ginny, splayed out on the grass, laughed. “You have no idea how heartening it is for us ordinary people when you fail at something.”  
Hermione smiled tightly. In that moment, she fully felt the collective weight of disappointment, self-pity, and fury. _Turn them out, knaves all three._  
  
She pulled away smoothly from Theo’s grip, tilted her head in farewell, and walked away as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run. She didn’t once look back, terrified of what the sight of the two of them might do to her composure; those two jolly _ordinary_ people lazing by the lake, probably laughing over how neurotic poor, smarty-pants Hermione was about her homework, and her lessons.  
She came to an abrupt stop as she remembered having this exact thought, nearly word for word, over five years ago. Except then, it was regarding Harry and Ron after they’d just finished with their first lesson on the levitation charm...  
_“You’re saying it wrong. It’s Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa, make the “gar” nice and long.”_  
She’d regressed so far that she had reclaimed the broken psyche of an eleven year old social outcast.

So, she had abandonment issues. Diddums. When she was five, her aunt and uncle had forgotten all about her in middle of the farmer’s market in Orton, and she had wandered lost and in tears for over an hour before they finally remembered her. Plump and sweet Ruby Groves had abandoned her on the playground when they were eight, after the other kids made fun of her for playing with ‘Bossy Beaver Granger’. Harry had abandoned her over a broom; Ron abandoned her like it was his favourite pastime... Padma, her first and only partner in intellectual pursuits abandoned her... Pete was twined around her naked body one night and suddenly leaving the next morning...  
Theo had made her feel cherished, understood, and completely _not_ alone for a long stretch... she supposed it was about time he moved on with his life.

Golly gosh, but she was being pathetic. _Stop it_. There really was Arithmancy work to get done. She sniffed. _Stop it_. She’d neglected practicing wandless transfiguration for a week. Her eyes were stinging. _Stop it._ Of course, she needed to read at least six more books on potioneering – the margin between Harry’s grades her hers was getting to be cataclysmic. She needed to look up some more protective enchantments. Her lower lip trembled.  
_Stop it stop it stop it._

 

* * *

 

Hermione spent the whole day in the restricted section of the library, after which she felt she could confidently claim to be fully capable of writing a top-quality dissertation on the _protego_ charm. A Saturday well spent, all in all, if you were gracious enough to strike the ten minutes she spent sniffling from the record.  
On standing up, she found her legs to be stiff beyond reason – she very nearly toppled right back into the armchair she had spent... well, shit... eight hours nestled in. It was nine o’clock at night. She’d missed dinner, tea, _and_ supper. The moment she stepped out of the library doors, she rummaged around in her bag in a desperate frenzy until she found a slightly crushed granola bar. She practically inhaled it all in one go.  
She didn’t feel like she could muster the energy required to visit Harry and Ron in the hospital wing... or to do anything besides hiking up to the Gryffindor tower.

Sometime later, she was leaning over the sink before a bathroom mirror, lethargically plucking stray hairs from around her eyebrows. Once satisfied, she straightened her spine and stared blankly at her freshly groomed visage.  
She looked so terribly tired. Hours of unremitted reading had caused the vessels under her eyes to swell up, and the eyes themselves looked flat, strained, and dull. Her skin was alarmingly pasty. She slapped both her cheeks repeatedly, and soon they were stained pink in the most unnatural way. She had her hair pulled up into a high bun which was nearly the same size as her head. It made her already slender neck look ridiculously twig-like. She followed the gently curving column down to where it met her shoulder – harshly cut by the prominent line of her clavicle – and then back up. Her gaze landed on the mole a few inches under her left ear. It was more like a glorified freckle, really; but it stood out explicitly against her current pallor, like a coffee grain on ivory.  
Hermione sighed and splashed cold water on her face until it was numb.

When she was finally curled up in bed, she wrote a letter to her parents. It was six pages long, and suffused with a tone of light frivolity and cheerfulness.

 

* * *

 

By the time she finished all her pending work on Sunday, the clock struck had noon, and Hermione felt like she’d lived through the day six times over. It was proving to be one of the longest weekends of her life.

She heroically kept her mind from lingering on her fervent yearning to spend time with Theo, and instead chose to loiter around the upper corridors, thinking about the dark and sinister premonitions she’d extracted from her Arithmantic calculations. Most of the sixth floor was deserted – until she found Dean standing before a portrait with a frown on his face. Hermione walked over and stood beside him.  
The picture was of one Philippe d'Orleans, a late descendant of some French aristocratic ( _pureblood_ ) line, and he was fast asleep, completely oblivious to his audience.

“Fucking hideous, innit?” Dean commented disdainfully.  
“IMPUDENCE!” Monsieur d’Orleans howled, suddenly wide awake, “I wood ‘ave you locked in an iron maiden fool of Bubotuber pus for zis!”   
“Not you, you toff,” Dean barked, and then turned to Hermione, ignoring the indignant sputtering that followed, “Look at the brushwork. It’s terrible.”  
It truly was. The shabbily applied paint was made all too obvious by the poor choice of colour and clumsy composition. Dean ducked his head and peered at the artist’s signature.  
“Some Collins bloke. Nineteen Twenty. The height of the modernist movement and _this_ is what magical people were doing. Can you imagine what incredible pictures they could be making? Their paintings fucking move, and all they’re using it for is to immortalise stuffed up geezers like old Philippe here.”  
“CONNARD! VA TE FAIRE ENCULET!”  
“Well, art in the wizarding world is sub-par across the board,” Hermione paused to cast an efficient silencing spell on the raving Marquis, and then continued, “I mean, look at the photography, the novels, the poetry, the music....”  
“Oh fuck, the music,” Dean groaned, “You right. It’s all rubbish.”  
  
They left d’Orleans miming furiously and continued to examine the paintings lining the wall.  
“Tsk. Awful. I’d call it derivative, but the so-called artist probably didn’t even know he’d inadvertently butchered Velasquez’s style.”  
Dean laughed, “We need to bring about a revolution, comrade Granger. It’s on us.”  
“It ought to be really bloody easy in such a boring and conservative cultural climate.”

Eventually, they ran out of wall, and standing at the end of the corridor, Dean asked, “Have you seen Ginny, by the way?”  
“Er, no. I haven’t since yesterday morning.”  
“You and I have that in common then,” he said, bitterly, “She’s refusing to talk to me because I laughed when precious Harry fell off his broom the other day...”  
“That wasn’t funny,” Hermione snapped.  
“I know it wasn’t. Everything was going wrong that day, damn it. _Everything_. Then Harry gets bludgered, and Luna’s carrying on in her way... I just... It was hysterical laughter, alright? I wasn’t _enjoying_ myself. And Ginny just jumped down my throat.”  
“Okay, I understand. But you know she’s a bit hot-headed –”  
“A ‘bit’?! _Ha!_ ”  
“– and she’s sensitive about quiddi –”  
“About Harry _._ ”  
Hermione didn’t know what else to say; her own feelings of resentment were blocking her from formulating a proper defence for Ginny’s case.  
“She’s going to have to do it,” he continued angrily, “break up with me, I mean. She can’t just ignore me and expect me to do it for her. Bitch can’t have it that easy.”  
Hermione stared at her feet, biting down hard on her lip.  
“Sorry,” he offered after a few seconds.  
“It’s okay. You’re... upset...”  
Dean just laughed humourlessly.  
She looked at her watch, and good grief, it was only twelve thirty.

* * *

 

Things looked better on Monday. Hermione sat next to Harry, nibbling on scrambled eggs and toast while he absentmindedly sipped his pumpkin juice, probably preoccupied with thoughts about Ginny and Dean’s row, and his upcoming lesson with Dumbledore.

Ron was sitting with Lavender, both stonily ignoring each other. Hermione wasn’t feeling petty enough to gloat... even to herself.

Barely had she set foot out of the Great Hall when she stood face to face (well, face to chest) with Theo. He raised an eyebrow at her startled expression and asked, “Off to class then?”  
There was a subtle accusatory tinge to his enquiry, to his stance, to the very air surrounding him.  
“Yes. Transfiguration.”  
“Okay. I’ll walk you to it.”  
“No!” she blurted, “You needn’t bother. I just...” she looked to her left, and to her right, and then called out “Harry!” and scampered away without another word of explanation.

She felt terrible and nauseous, wishing she hadn’t eaten anything just moments before. Still, there was a sense of calm that came with the knowledge that she was pulling away before he finally decided to.

* * *

 

“...when we came out of the memory, Dumbledore told me that Hepzibah Smith was found dead two days later, and her House-Elf confessed to _accidentally_ poisoning her cocoa. Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup were gone. And the one everybody knew as Tom Riddle seemed to fall off the face of the earth.”  
“ _Blimey,_ ” Ron breathed.  
“He framed the House-Elf?” Hermione demanded, shrilly.  
Harry nodded, gravely and knowingly, “All worth it in his opinion. The only thing he cared about was getting his hands on those treasures. The next memory was Dumbledore’s, ten years later. Riddle came into his office and asked for a position on the Hogwarts staff.”  
“He _what_?” Ron looked stunned. Hermione was still fuming over the fate of Hepzibah’s poor House-Elf.  
“As the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Dumbledore turned him down, of course, and he was none too happy about it. By that time he’d established himself as the notorious Lord Voldemort, and had started calling his followers Death Eaters.”  
“Godric’s gonads. Why was he so keen on teaching here?” Ron asked.  
“Dunno. Dumbledore says it’ll all make sense once I’ve got that memory from Slughorn. Fuck. I really wish I knew _how_.”  
“You’re going to have to be cunning and underhand about it, Harry. You know how starry-eyed he gets around you,” Hermione said, “You’ll need to butter him up just right...”  
“I tried that, Hermione,” Harry whinged despondently, “He shoved me out of his office.”

Three pairs of eyes – blue, green, and brown – stared pensively at the Gryffindor hearth. Reflected firelight took on a different hue in each of their irises.

 

* * *

 

Hermione threw herself into assignments, work, and research with doubly redoubled gusto, which was more than a little extreme, even by her standards. When she wasn’t in class, she lived in the restricted section of the library.  
Lavender scowled at her every time she saw her. Ron was perpetually agitated; Harry preoccupied. Parvati kept trying to talk to her about Padma, Dean kept trying to talk to her about Ginny. The only way to save herself from the talons of a menacing meltdown was to hide under a pile of tomes.

By mid-week, she looked like a forgotten member of the Addams family. She let her hair spill down her shoulders and back, silently willing the curls and spirals to be as outrageous as possible. Might as well go all out. ‘Electrocuted Morticia’ was her new aesthetic.  
  
She walked to the greenhouses with Neville, unreservedly convinced that he was the only sane one among her group of peers. He was reading out a passage about the most effective methods of harvesting goosegrass from the latest addition of _The New Journal of Herbology_ while Hermione listened. She remembered when his voice had squeaked and quivered continuously, when he had been the same height as her, when he meekly shuffled up to her and asked if she had seen his toad...  
Feeling a surge of fondness towards him, Hermione smiled and asked, “Would you mind if I read your Herbology essays from now on? I’m sure they’ll be immensely insightful.”  
Neville flushed with pleasure and agreed at once.

* * *

 

Theo sat within the range of her peripheral vision, and spent the entire potion’s lesson assiduously glowering at her. Hermione shook her hair down to hide him from view, but it didn’t help at all.  
She could _feel_ his icy gaze.

Oh, hell. Cutting up chomping cabbages was hard enough without being completely distracted. Gingerly, she stole a glance in his direction... his mouth tightened, but the hard intransigence of his glare remained the same.

“ _AAAAH!_ ” Ernie’s unexpected shout commandeered everybody’s attention. He was clutching at his bleeding hand, and gnashing his teeth....  At her?  
It took a perplexed Hermione a few moments to realise that her overzealous cabbage had taken advantage of her inattentiveness, clamped down on her knife and flung it at the unsuspecting Hufflepuff.  
“ _Shit!_ I’m so sorry Ernie!” she wrung her hands tensely.  
“Oho! What’s this commotion?” Slughorn waddled over, and seemed to find the entire situation rather humorous. He sent Ernie off to Madam Pomfrey, and laid a reassuring hand on Hermione’s shoulder, “Harmless accident, Ms. Granger. Happens to the best of us.”

She held down the demonic homicidal vegetable and hacked it into shreds.  
It was only after she had put all the required ingredients into her cauldron and set it to simmer, that she risked another quick look at Theo. He shook his head hostilely.  
The seat next to him where Malfoy usually sat was empty.

* * *

 

A tawny, speckled owl dropped a mint green envelope on Hermione’s lap, stole a scone off her plate, and flew away... all in a matter of seconds.

A broad grin broke across her face, and she fled from the crowded Great Hall, ignoring Harry’s “Who’s it from?” and Ron’s “Wheh oo tearin offoo?”  
She raced through the castle until she found the perfect secluded nook with a lovely large window to settle by. And there, with a happy sigh, she opened up the long missive her parents had written to her.  
They always wrote those letters together – two voices, one note – and when she read them she felt like she’d been transported back into their living room, seated on the settee, watching them as they talked to her and to each other.  
  
_... your father has decided to sew the most preposterously garish patches onto his jeans like some sort of delinquent teenager... ...old Mrs. Henley’s tabby somehow got trapped in our shed, and now she’s convinced we torture and kill cats in our spare time... ...your mother is baking again; SEND HELP... ...Hermione, my brilliant girl, your thoughts about Kafka were so discerning... ...Would you believe it, apparently Richey’s been spotted in Goa..._  
_...We miss you..._  
_...We love you..._  
_...Hope you’re as excited as we are about this summer and our holiday in Australia._  
  
Hermione clutched the letter to her heart and basked in its sweetness. She carefully put it between the pages of a book in her bag; in the evening it would join the thick bundle she kept in the bottom of her trunk.  
She didn’t think she’d be going to Australia any time soon; not with the way everything seemed to be rapidly coming to a head.

She stood up slowly and looked out the window, detesting the way her joy upon reading her parents’ words was going up in smoke, leaving behind the ashy residue of despair.

There were two figures leisurely circuiting the grounds a few meters away from the Whomping Willow. Even though they were at a considerable distance, Hermione could tell that one had long red hair, and the other was wearing a blue and green scarf around his neck.  
The hair and the scarf were both flapping in the wind like banners.

* * *

 

Harry, Ron, and Seamus were talking and Hermione paid them no heed. She was a girl possessed: steadfast and resolute. She entered the Great Hall with just one thing on her mind – she would not, _could not_ , let a silly wooden ring and a vaporous ministry lackey defeat her.

The brightest fucking witch of her age closed her eyes when Twycross began his countdown. She pictured the hoop, the whole hoop and nothing but the hoop ( _I swear before almighty Merlin_ )...  
“...3!”  
She spun. Every molecule of air around her hardened like concrete and slammed into her with the force of a mallet, squeezing, _constricting_ all her bones and organs tightly. She opened her eyes with a gasp, and she found herself standing squarely inside her hoop.

“Well done, Ms. Er...”  
“Granger,” Professor McGonagall supplied with a glint of pride in her eyes.  
“Yes,” Twycoss droned, “Ms. Granger. Why don’t we see if you can manage that twice in a row...?”

She absolutely could, and did.

* * *

 


	20. Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

“Bugger!” Ron exclaimed in panic, his eyes fixed on a sign on the Gryffindor notice board. He looked green enough for Hermione to feel legitimately scared that the Sunday roast he had consumed not too long ago was going to make an ugly reappearance.  
It was an announcement regarding the date of their Apparition test - the twenty-first of April (for those who would be seventeen years of age on or before the date).  
“Bugger, bugger, buggering shite. I’m going to _fail_. There’s no way I’m not going to. Fred and George will never let me live it down!”

Ron agonised over the test for over an hour that evening. The common room was filled with sixth year students doing the same while simultaneously scrambling to complete their Defence Against the Dark Arts essay on Dementors.  
Hermione had gotten hers over and done with three days ago.

She looked across at Harry who was sitting on the other side of the table and frowning down at an open book. He had decided that the solution to his Slughorn-predicament lay with the self-styled “half-blood Prince”. Irritated, Hermione wrinkled her nose and said, “You won’t find anything in there.”  
Harry huffed, and looked up to scowl at her. “Don’t start, Hermione. If it hadn’t been for the Prince, Ron wouldn’t be sitting here now.”  
“He would if you’d just listened to Snape in our first year,” she snapped. She waited expectantly for him to say something more, but he simply turned back to his book, silently dismissing her. So she spoke again, more irate than before, “I’m telling you, the stupid Prince isn’t going to be able to help you with this, Harry! There’s only one way to force someone to do what you want, and that’s the Imperius Curse, which is illegal–”  
“Yeah, I know that, thanks,” Harry cut in glibly, not bothering to look at her again, “That’s why I’m looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won’t do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell…”  
“ _You’re going about it the wrong way_ ,” she stressed, “Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people can’t. It’s not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that–”  
She was interrupted again, this time by Ron: “How d’you spell ‘belligerent’?” He was feverishly shaking his quill, looking riled up, “It can’t be B–U–M –”  
“No, it isn’t,” Hermione assured him, plucking his parchment away from his hands and examining his ungainly scrawl, “And ‘augury’ doesn’t begin O– R–G either,” She stared at him with bewilderment. “What kind of quill are you using?”  
“It’s one of Fred and George’s Spell-Check ones … but I think the charm must be wearing off…” he answered sulkily.  
“Yes, it must. Because we were asked how we’d deal with dementors, not ‘Dugbogs,’ and I don’t remember you changing your name to ‘Roonil Wazlib’ either.”  
Ron gaped at his essay – stricken. “Ah no!” he moaned, “Don’t say I’ll have to write the whole thing out again!”  
Hermione sighed at the pathetically aggrieved look on his face, and pulled her wand out. “It’s okay,” she said consolingly, “we can fix it.” She began tapping at all the faulty words, correcting them one by one.  
Ron watched her for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes tiredly.   
“I love you, Hermione.”

She nearly threw his banal, badly written essay right back at him. Anger, sharp and scorching, speared its way up her spine and flooded her face with heat. How dare he… how _dare_ he say that to her, now, so flippantly, as a way to thank her for helping him with his bloody homework, when she had spent over a year _aching_ to hear it from him. With great difficulty she took a breath to calm herself down, and said as disinterestedly as could manage, “Don’t let Lavender hear you saying that.”  
He continued to rub his eyes, radiating fatigue. “I won’t. …Or maybe I will… then she’ll ditch me…”  
_Arsehole._  
“Why don’t you ditch her if you want to finish it?” Harry asked, saving Ron from her reaction.  
“You haven’t ever chucked anyone, have you? You and Cho just–”  
“Sort of fell apart, yeah.”  
“Wish that would happen with me and Lavender. But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It’s like going out with the giant squid.”  
It was clearer than ever, at that moment, that Ron and Ginny were siblings. Apparently, they employed the same shitty tactics when it came to ending relationships.  
  
“ _Fooking no good, sallow, greasy wankstain!_ ”  
They watched Seamus stomp off to bed furiously, all the while muttering colourful adjectives to describe Snape.

Hermione felt vaguely angry with everyone and everything. She supposed it was the amalgamation of stomach cramps, fatigue, and dire Theo-withdrawal symptoms.  Thankfully, Harry and Ron had fallen silent after Seamus’ departure.  
  
“There,” she said eventually, and gave Ron his essay back. They were the only people left in the common room by then.  
“Thanks a million,” he said, “Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?”  
Of course he could. She handed him the feather wordlessly, and sat back and observed his silhouette. He was too tall for the low table he was working on, so he was hunched awkwardly over his parchment. His hair hung over his forehead, glowing in the light of the fire. Her resentment towards him dissipated with the suddenness of a flame being doused with a bucket of sand. He distractedly bit the corner of his lip and furrowed his brow as he worked, looking for all the world like a dedicated scholar...  
  
...A small explosion like a gunshot rang out, and she shrieked. Ron jerked wildly, sousing his essay with ink.  
“Kreacher!” Harry cried.  
Hermione stared in astonishment at the sour looking House-Elf, decked out in rags. He bowed deeply, and rasped, “Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give–”  
_Crack.  
_ This time it was Dobby. He glared at Kreacher with his enormous eyes.  
“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter! And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!”  
Unacceptably baffled, Hermione demanded an explanation.  
Harry dithered, shooting her an uncertain glance, “Well… they’ve been following Malfoy for me...”  
“Night and day,” Kreacher added waspishly.  
“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” Dobby chirped deliriously.  
“You haven’t slept, Dobby?” Hermione raged, “But surely, Harry, you didn’t tell him not to–”  
“No! No, of course I didn’t! Dobby, you can sleep, all right?” (– well, how _benevolent_ of you, Harry!–) “But has either of you found out anything?”

She participated sparingly in the discussion that followed. Finally, Malfoy’s mysterious disappearances had been accounted for. She almost found herself smacking a book on her head like Harry, because it was so _obvious._ The Room of Requirement. Of course.  
  
The second after he dismissed the two House-Elves, Harry turned to Hermione and Ron, and beamed. “How good’s this? We know where Malfoy’s going! We’ve got him cornered now!”  
Ron shrugged glumly, dabbing ineffectually at the puddle of ink on his essay.  
With a long-suffering sigh, Hermione pulled it away from him and began draining off the ink off with her wand. “But what’s all this about him going up there with a ‘variety of students’?” she asked Harry, “How many people are in on it? You wouldn’t think he’d trust lots of them to know what he’s doing…”  
“Yeah, that _is_ weird.  I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn’t Crabbe’s business what he was doing… so what’s he telling all these… all these…” Harry pondered silently for a minute... then suddenly – “God, I’ve been stupid,” he said quietly. “It’s bloody obvious, isn’t it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon… He could’ve nicked some any time during that lesson…”  
“Nicked _what_?” Ron wondered.  
Agitation had driven Harry to his feet; he paced madly as he rambled, “Polyjuice Potion! He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson… There aren’t a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy… it’s just Crabbe and fucking Goyle as usual… Yeah, it all fits! They’re stupid enough to do what they’re told even if he won’t tell them what he’s up to… but he doesn’t want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he’s got them taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people… Those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch – ha! Crabbe and Goyle!”  
Ron threw back his head and cackled. “He’s got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls? Blimey… No wonder they don’t look too happy these days…  I’m surprised they don’t tell him to go fuck himself…”  
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they, if he’s shown them his Dark Mark?” Harry said like he was stating the obvious.

   
That was the point at which Hermione decided it was time for her to leave.  
“Hmmm,” she said dismissively, “the Dark Mark we don’t know exists...”   
Harry gave her a superior sort of look. “We’ll see,” he said boldly.  
“Yes, we will,” Hermione said. She stood up, picked up her bag, and gave him one final, solemn look, “But, Harry, before you get all excited, I still don’t think you’ll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what’s there first. And I don’t think you should forget that what you’re supposed to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night.”

She darted up to her dormitory, ignoring Harry’s look of annoyance.

 

She tossed and turned in bed for a long time that night. The disquietude she’d been feeling was a raging storm now – her very own Great Red Spot.  
Dobby and Kreacher’s revelations had added fuel to Harry’s mania, and that was worrying enough in itself... yet, she found herself – _oh heaven forbid_ – on the brink of espousing a similar obsession. If Malfoy was indeed the one behind the failed attempts at Dumbledore’s life, whatever he was working on in the Room of Requirement was sure to be extremely dangerous. Hermione seriously doubted he was going there to unwind, or to indulge in “poetic bouts of night-time brooding”, as Theo had once claimed. And speaking of... she had no option but to talk to Theo again. Now that she had this new bit of information in her arsenal, he wouldn’t be able to dismiss her all that easily.  
...That is if he would be willing to talk to her at all...  
Hermione grumbled to herself, and then flipped over to lie on her belly, pressing her face into her pillow.

“ _Beauty, truth, and rarity._  
_Grace in all simplicity,_  
_Here enclos’d in cinders lie._ ”

  
Who was Draco Malfoy? If only he still derided her at every given opportunity... if only he had bombastically threatened to hex her when they’d nearly collided... She knew exactly who that person was.  
Who was this cold, haunted, evasive, and scheming shadow? Was he the trap, the trigger, or the hunter?

 _“...Here enclos’d in cinders lie._ ”

  
She wondered what he thought of Raskolnikov and Meursault.

* * *

 

Hermione felt too wound up to stomach anything more than a cup of tea for breakfast. Harry was devising elaborate strategies to break into the room that Malfoy required, and she remained deliberately uninvolved, much to his displeasure.  
Ron was eating.  
She shot a stealthy glance at the Slytherin table – Malfoy was notably missing; as were Crabbe and Goyle. It was fairly safe to deduce that they was currently up on the seventh floor, just as it was safe to presume that Harry was going to waste his entire morning pointlessly pacing before a wall.

She was shaken out of her ruminations with the arrival of an owl bringing her the _Daily Prophet_. However, before she could open it out, Harry laid his hand atop it and said, “Look, I haven’t forgotten about Slughorn, but I haven’t got a clue how to get that memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why shouldn’t I find out what Malfoy’s doing?”

She was very thankful that he took her reticence to be disapproval, rather than realising that she currently shared his fixation.  
“I’ve already told you, you need to persuade Slughorn,” she said, “It’s not a question of tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could have done it in a second. Instead of messing around outside the Room of Requirement” – she yanked the newspaper out from under his hand – “you should go and find Slughorn and start appealing to his better nature.”

                                                                                                                                                        

She left for Ancient Runes soon after, mentally adding layers of resilience to her skin with every step she took. She was torn between wanting the lesson to end as soon as possible, and for it to go on forever.  
All of last week she’d chosen to sit beside Terry Boot, so when she settled on her usual seat that day, Theo looked at her in surprise, and then antipathy. Hermione kept her eyes fixed on Professor Babbling; for once, she felt that the woman was living up to her name... but she supposed that was mostly her own fault, owing to the fact that all her attention was focused on the boy sitting next to her, dutifully taking down notes, albeit with a scowl on his face.

Finally, the lesson ended. Theo stood up to leave immediately, but Hermione reached out frantically and grabbed the back of this cloak.  
“May I have a word, please?”  
Theo eyed the fabric held tightly in her fist until she slowly let go of it.  
“ _Please_ ,” she said once more, plaintively.  
His aspect was one of cool detachment, the kind he bestowed upon the masses who didn’t know him, and whom he didn’t care to know. “Okay," he agreed coolly.  
Hermione nodded, and led him out of the classroom to a secluded alcove behind an arras depicting the goblin rebellion of 1752.  
“Look,” she began... and then took a deep breath, bowed her head, and carried on, “We – that is, Harry, Ron, and I – know that Malfoy’s been spending most of his time in the room of requirement. We haven’t figured out what he’s doing yet, but –”  
“You want to talk about Draco!?” he sounded furious and incredulous, and when Hermione lifted her eyes to look at him, she found that his expression reflected the same.  
“Er, yes,” she said timidly, “Harry is absolutely determined to find out what –”  
“You want,” he snarled, “to talk about _Draco_.”  
Hermione stared. “Er...”  
“ _Fuck you_ ,” he spat, ruthlessly.  
And then he stormed away, leaving Hermione alone and unable to breathe.

 

* * *

 

  
She ghosted through the next two days in autopilot mode, going from one lesson to the other, skipping meals, and dodging conversations.  
  
She spent the nights curled up on the window seat, trying to read... plaiting and unplaiting her hair...

   
_There was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,_  
_And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,_  
_Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming_  
_And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:_  
_And he called loudly to the stars to bend_  
_From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they_  
_Among themselves laugh on and sing alway..._

 

* * *

 

“You’ve really upset him, you know?”  
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. “I know.”  
  
Approaching Luna had been her last desperate attempt to fix things, now that getting Theo alone on her own was no longer an option.

   
“I’ve just been so stupid, Luna. Stupid, and... and... thoughtless. I know I’ve done a lot of questionable, problematic, and vengeful things, but I’ve never felt like such a _bad person_ before.” She morosely peered up at the cloudless sky.  
“You’re not a bad person, Hermione,” Luna reproved gently, “You’re a little socially inept. So am I, I think, from what I’ve gathered...”  
Hermione smiled sadly at the odd girl with her dirigible plum earrings and strings of cornflowers in her hair.  
“...Theo is as well,” Luna continued, “We have to band together – there will be a time when the Ministry brings out its mind-controlling tweed caps – (you might remember seeing them in the Department of Mysteries last year) – and we’ll be the first ones they come after,” Luna leaned forward and tapped her temple, “the so-called eccentric ones.”  
“He doesn’t want to talk to me, Luna.”  
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell him to hear you out. He listens to me.”  
Feeling a touch less burdened than she had in _days_ , Hermione grinned. “That he does.”

 

* * *

 

Vicious hunger clawed at her insides. Hermione hadn’t eaten properly in ages, and on Thursday evening she felt the absence of every single meal she had passed over.  
She raced past lamps as they flared to life, eager to reach the Great Hall for dinner.

   
Suddenly, something latched onto her arm and pulled her into an empty classroom. Hermione yelped in panic, whirled around with her wand raised, ready to.....  
“Theo?!” she gasped, “What the _hell_ –”  
“You wanted to talk,” he barked with a sneer, “Go ahead. Talk.”  
“Oh,” Hermione tried to buy herself some time by making a great show of stowing her wand away and catching her breath.  
Theo was having none of it. “ _Talk_ ,” he growled.  
“Yes. Yes, okay,” Hermione wrung her hands and fixed her gaze on Theo’s knee, “I’m just... I’m really sor–”  
“What did I do?”  
“Huh?”  
He turned his back to her and walked a few paces away. “What. Did. I. Do. Why did you suddenly decide to toss me out of your life?”  
“I didn’t... that wasn’t...”  
“Oh save it,” he snapped wrathfully, “Something fucking happened. I tried all week to understand... to get you to explain... and you just kept running away from me like I was infected with a particularly gruesome strain of Spattergroit. And now you want to talk? Lovely,” he doggedly kept his back to her, “Tell me what I did to suffer your disapproval.”  
“NOTHING,” Hermione wailed desperately, “You didn’t do anything! I just... just...”  
“Just _what_? I badgered Ginny endlessly, but she said you’ve been avoiding her as well. Fucking Potter said –”  
“ _You spoke to Harry_?!”  
“– POTTER SAID that you’re perfectly fine, and are currently busy helping Weasley catch up with his coursework,” – He still hadn’t turned around – “Is that it then? You got your old chum back, so now you no longer need me around?”  
“NO! Theo, _no_! That’s not remotely –”  
“You want to talk about Draco? He bloody warned me. Told me you had no room in your life for anyone except your Gryffindor heroes. But I told him he was wrong. Told him that you... you...” Hermione looked woefully at the back of his head as he shook it, “... _Fuck_. I was even making an effort to get along with your friends. _For you_. And then what? I’m left to spend my afternoons moaning at sodding Ginny Weasley. Is she supposed to be my consolation prize? What exactly do –”  
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING ALONG SWIMMINGLY,” she let drop, tears stinging her eyes.

Theo froze. His entire frame stiffened. And slowly... he turned around... and stared at her.  
He got it. He absolutely _got_ _it_ , and Hermione, terrified and shattered, wanted to run away. She wanted to escape the stifling tension in that room and his penetrating gaze.  
But he didn’t allow her that option. He marched towards her, stony-faced, and gripped her shoulders. “Have I not –” and then he shook her, hard, “– made it abundantly clear that I am _not_ like those disgracefully flaky tossers you hang around?!” he shook her again, “Have I not _proved_ that I won’t bloody abandon you for _any_ thing or _any_ one? Have I not adequately expressed –” another hard shake “– my regard for you? Is it not apparent enough that I –”  
“I’M SORRY,” Hermione blubbered, crying in earnest, “I’m so... sorry... didn’t mean... _sorry_... just so pathetic... terrible person... _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_...”  
She wasn’t making any sense. She didn’t know how many words she was actually saying, and how many were getting lost among her sobs and gasps.  
“ _Such a stupid girl_ ” she heard, though it was barely above a whisper, and then she found herself being pulled towards him... against him... and he hugged her.  
She bawled into his robes, maintaining an erratic litany of “sorry, sorry, _sorry..._ ” and he patted her back gently, saying “Shh... shush... enough...”

“ _Enough_ ,” he iterated firmly, pulling away and grasping her shoulders once again, “Calm down.”  
“Theo. I’m _sorry_...”  
“By Salazar, I heard you the first sixty times, alright? _Enough_. It’s okay...”  
“No it isn’t!” she sniffed, roughly mopping her cheeks with her fingers, “I’m just so sor –”  
“Did I ever tell you exactly how my mother died, Hermione?”  
Well, that shut her up. “Wha- what?”  
“I was four. Just a couple of months short of five, actually... so one evening, I was sat in my room when I heard loud crashes and screams coming from downstairs....” Theo shuddered. He removed his hands from her shoulders, walked over to the nearest chair, and sat down forcibly. He looked far away into the distance; his eyes were unfocused. “It took me a while to find them – the old ancestral home’s rather whopping...” that was the point at which his voice began to quiver, “Father was standing in the dead centre of the parlour, yelling and waving his wand around like a maniac. Furniture was flying about, crashing against the walls... colliding against each other... My mother was cowering in a corner... pleading... I think... I _might_ have called out to her... There was another really loud boom... and that’s all. The next thing I know, I’m in Malfoy manor... on Narcissa’s lap... in hysterics... My mother was dead,” he closed his eyes and sighed; Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth in horror. “They questioned me for hours and in many different ways... I just couldn’t remember anything. But... I must’ve... I had to have seen _something_ , because I’ve been able to see Thestrals ever since.”  
“Oh god,” Hermione whispered. He opened his eyes and nodded.  
“Now, here’s the point: after that day, I spent most of my time with the Malfoys. They practically adopted me – I ate at least one meal a day with them. I was a part of family outings, picnics, trips to Diagon... Narcissa taught me to read, Lucius bought me my first broom... they never missed a birthday... I went with them to Paris every summer...” he said with a tender smile, “And Draco – bratty, entitled Draco – didn’t for a second resent my presence, or the fact that I had claimed some of his parents’ attention. If I call him my brother, it’s because that’s _exactly_ what he is. And yes, I know my brother is involved in something very grave indeed... He isn’t going to tell me, Hermione. I’ve... I’ve _begged_ , but he just gives me that fucking smirk of his and says ‘plausible deniability’. We had a huge row over this about two weeks back. He said he really _can’t_ tell me – for my safety, and his safety, and Narcissa’s safety. I did, however, make him swear he’d come to me if things got out of hand...  
“And I’ve written to Narcissa eight times, five times to Lucius, interrogated Snape (got me a detention, that), and endured a soul-deadening conversation with _Goyle..._ to no avail. All I can do is keep a close eye on Draco, and make sure he’s safe. I can talk to him and keep him sane. I can give him the books you so kindly contribute; I can make sure he eats and sleeps from time to time.  And before you ask... No. I’m not going to Dumbledore, or Slughorn, or sodding McGonagall. I will not turn informer against him... not for anything; not ever. Surely you can understand that?”

  
She did. Completely.  
For even if he had admitted to being in cahoots with Malfoy... she wouldn’t have turned him in. Just like it was when Harry was concerned; she would cast away her supposed morals for Theo, too.

“I do understand,” she murmured.  
“My world... my _family_... consists of three people,” he said, and finally turned in the chair to look at her fully, “Well... four now, I’d say.”  
He smiled, shrugged casually, and a sob tore its way out of Hermione’s throat, making her spine curve from the force of it.  
“Oh come here,” he huffed, and when she only took a tentative step forward, he reached out, grabbed her hips, and tugged her closer. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head against her lower ribs. She softly carded her fingers through his hair. He sighed.  
They stayed that way for a long time.

 

By and by, he slackened his hold.  
“Let’s go eat,” he said while standing up and vanishing the tear-stains on his robes, “The noises your stomach is making are positively feral.”

 

* * *

 

  
The freshness of early spring lent a beautiful charm to the village of Hogsmeade. Trees sprinkled with bright green leaves gleamed under the resplendent sun, and all the shops had little pots of flowers adorning their windows.  
Hermione and Ron strolled towards the square for extra apparition lessons. Ron was jittery with nerves, making him chatty, which was having a rather unfortunate impact on Hermione’s once-calm nerves.   
  
“I’m so bloody glad to be out here! Lavender’s not going to be of age till late June... Means there’s no danger of her ambushing me for the next three hours. Whew!”  
Hermione _didn’t_ role her eyes – a remarkable show of restraint on her part.  
“Seriously, _what more can I do?_ I break every plan we make, skip out on her over and over again... how thick can she be? Why can’t some people take a bloody hint?”  
“Mmhmm.”  
Hermione had been glad they were leaving Harry behind... even though it meant he’d be stuck in a self-inflicted exile on the seventh floor. At least she wouldn’t have to pretend to brush off the Malfoy issue by building up the Slughorn issue, (although it was obvious that the latter truly did deserve all of Harry’s attention at the moment,) but now she really wished he had come with them.  
“I don’t even let her snog me for more than a minute now –” _oh good god_ “–but it’s like she’s decided it’s all some big challenge for her to overcome. Makes a bloke wonder, you know... what if all girls are like this? Clingy. Needy. It’s enough to make a permanent bachelor out of me for sure...”  
“Oh look, that’s Theo. Hey! Theo!” she called out, waving.  
“Huh?!” Ron choked, “What are you – _No_ –”  
“Hi, Hermione. ...Weasley.” Theo smiled tightly, shooting her a fleeting, questioning look.  
“Hi,” Hermione said brightly, “Excited about the lesson? Think you’ll finally manage to pull it off?”  
“Sure. After aaaaall this time we’ve spent together,” Theo slung his arm around her shoulders, “some of your brilliance must have rubbed off on me.”  
Ron scowled severely with his hands deep in his pockets, and remained adamantly quiet the rest of the way.

 

*

 

The lesson went rather well.  
Hermione travelled from point A to B, no problem, all six times. Theo did it three times. Ron overshot – landing up outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill shop, rather than Madam Puddifoot’s.  There was only one instance of splinching: Justin Flinch-Fletchley again, regrettably.

 

Later, everybody filled into the Three Broomsticks for a celebratory round of drinks. Hermione sat at a corner table with Theo, Ron, and Seamus.  
“Bloody weird to be having a pint with you,” Seamus muttered to Theo.  
“Likewise, er...”  
“Seamus Finnigan, ya twat. I’m in four of your classes.”  
“Right, right. Of course. Finnigan. Sláinte!”  
With that, Theo took a long sip of his butterbeer. Seamus watched him with narrowed eyes for a second, before shrugging, raising his glass, and chugging it down.

Their strange little party was interrupted not much later.  
“Ms. Granger,” Twycross said genially, “You were absolutely spectacular today. I’ve been conducting these lessons for years; never before have I seen any student grasp the D’s so promptly, so firmly –” Theo, Seamus, and Ron were sniggering behind their mugs, “– such fine technique! Your movement in particular is a stroke of genius...”  
“ _Thank you_ Mr. Twycross, sir,” Hermione shut him down before he could inflict any real damage. Seamus was already a worrying shade of purple, and after the man had gone, he bent over laughing.  
“Grasp... movement... _stroke_ ,” he wheezed.  
“Very mature, Seamus,” Hermione rebuked, taking a dainty sip of her drink.

With a laden tray, Madam Rosmerta approached them, tacitly enquiring if they required refills. She looked dreadfully exhausted, just as she had around Christmas. Her usual coquettish effusiveness was completely lacking, and when they all refused refills, she nodded indifferently.  
“Soooo, Rosmerta,” Ron spoke in a voice two octaves lower than usual, “Have you heard the joke about the blind healer?”  
“No,” she replied vacantly.  
“Well, see... there’s this healer, and he’s blind, yeah? One day he was going to perform a tricky boil removal spell on a patient, and –”  
“How the hell was he allowed to do that?”  
“Bugger off, Seamus. It’s a _joke._ So anyway, Rosmerta, the healer goes up to his patient –”  
“This premise is a joke.”  
“Shut up, Hermione. His patience’s a hag –”  
“ _What?!_ There isn’t a hag in all the world who’d want any of her boils removed...”  
“Nobody asked you, Nott! _His patient, a hag, wanted her facial boil removed_. Now, she had a mimbulus mimbletonia plant on her lap –”  
“Why the hell –”  
“ _She just did, alright?_ Shut. Up. She had a mimbulus mimbletonia plant on her lap. The blind healer reached out, feeling his way towards his patient –”  
“That’s just _ridiculous_.”  
“THE WRONG BOIL! HE BURST THE WRONG BOIL, AND THERE WAS STINK SAP EVERYWHERE!” Ron roared, panting furiously.  
The entire pub fell silent.  
“That wasn’t funny,” Madam Rosmerta stated, and drifted away.

 

Ron grimaced in mortification. He could barely look at his three compatriots, but did manage to muster the pluck to demand: “Not. One. Word.”  
In all fairness, they abided by that request. Not one of them spoke a single word. They did, however, laugh uproariously, until their faces were red and their eyes were watering.

  
On the walk back to the castle, Theo and Seamus broke into an improvised, largely nonsensical and _explicitly_ lewd ditty about hags, healers, and boil covered D’s. Ron sulked, kicking up an unnecessary amount of dirt with every step he took.

 

* * *

 


	21. Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

 

The deserted passageway was a mesh of beguiling shadows; intrigue and conspiracy hung thick in the air like a rancid fog. The night was a quite one... the kind where all sorts of no good sinister creatures, great and small, came out to play.   
Hermione Granger, P.I., pulled her dark cloak tightly around her (impeccably disillusioned) frame, and she peeped around the corner leading into the seventh-floor corridor. Her mark – tall, slender, and so very _blond_ – had just stepped out of what had been a solid wall, and was surveying his surroundings with great caution. He had such a strong aura of ambiguity about him – his fair colouring somehow able to scorch and chill at the same time.   
Beautiful, sure, but there ain’t never been no pretty face that had managed to lead Hermione Granger, P.I., astray...

Okay, NO. Draco Malfoy could NOT be a femme fatale. Er, _homme_ fatale. Absolutely not.

 

The sound of soft footsteps brought back her focus: Malfoy was walking down the corridor, away from her. She hastily made to follow, silencing her own footfalls.

She wasn’t going to bother attempting to break into the room he had been using – she knew that it would be a completely pointless endeavour. To her grave disappointment, neither Crabbe nor Goyle were at hand, so she wouldn’t be eavesdropping on any potentially edifying conversation as she had hoped.   
But she continued to trail him, half sprinting to keep him in sight; he really walked quite fast.   
There was a hypnotic quality to the way light bounced off his hair. He kept his spine absolutely straight, his arms swung just the right amount, and his chin remained self-importantly raised. From the back, none of his recently developed signs of weakness were evident. 

He stopped suddenly, and Hermione got so involved in keeping herself from tripping over her own feet, that she didn’t notice the presence of another person in their midst.

 

“Pansy,” Malfoy stated, folding his arms across his chest and looking down his nose at the girl.   
“Oh, Draco! Where have you been? Sprout said you were supposed to report to her for detention two hours ago, but nobody had any idea where you were... and _oh_ , you’re in so much trouble...”   
“ _Fuck_ ,” Malfoy spat, “I completely forgot... that dumpy old bale of hay will probably double my punishment now.”   
“Where have you been, Draco?” Pansy asked miserably, “Where do you keep going...?”   
Malfoy scowled. “None of your business. Now move; I’ve got talk to Snape and see if he’ll get Sprout to drop this ridiculous detention business...”   
“No, Draco, Wait!”   
Pansy grabbed onto his arm desperately, and he glared at her in disbelief.   
“Have you lost your mind, Pansy? Let. Go.”   
“No first you listen, I –”   
“Let go NOW.” He had a crazed, fearsome look in his eyes, and Hermione was quite impressed that Pansy stood her ground.   
“NO!” she yelled, “No. First you tell me what you’re doing. I’ve barely seen you in months! You don’t eat, you’re rarely in class... you don’t even _look_ at me! And you haven’t... _we_ haven’t... in _ages_...”   


Hermione always thought that if she ever saw Pansy Parkinson cry, she’d be rather... well, not _gleeful_... just perhaps filled with some well-deserved schadenfreude. But there was nothing enjoyable about watching her snivel while clinging onto Malfoy’s arm as he sneered at her contemptuously.   
  
“Oh poor little Pansy,” he mocked, “Gagging, are we? Why don’t you go ask Higgs? You know he’s always up for it.”   
“Stop it!” she wailed, “ _Please!_ I miss you, Draco. And I’m worried about you! Are you... is it... it’s _him_ , isn’t it? He’s told you to do something, hasn’t he?”   
“As I’ve said before, it’s none of your fucking business,” Malfoy said menacingly, bearing down on her, “And I don’t need you to _worry_ about me. What I need is for you to let go of my arm, and leave... me... ALONE.”   
With that, he tore his arm out of her clutches and strode away. Left by herself, Pansy pressed her fist to her mouth to muffle her sobs, and after a minute or two, followed in Malfoy’s still steaming wake.

 

Wretchedly ill at ease after that evening’s bit of sleuthing, Hermione Granger, P.I., shuffled back to her headquarters, a lone figure with a long shadow, brooding intensely.

 

* * *

  

En route to the Transfiguration classroom for her next lesson, Hermione spotted a familiar cascade of red hair and realised there was one more person she’d been treating less than fairly of late. She increased her pace to a trot to catch up with her.   
“Hi Ginny,” she said guiltily.   
“Well, hello! Long time no see, Herms of my heart,” Ginny said pointedly.   
Hermione replied with a clever “Um.”   
“Have you and Theo have made up yet?” Ginny demanded.   
“We have...”   
“Thank _Merlin_! I swear, if he had come up to me one more time to moan about you, I’d have hexed him... badly. He was driving me up the wall. _Gah_.”   
“Er, I’m sorry about that,” Hermione mumbled.   
“What the hell was it all about then? ...No, wait. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Between him and Dean I’ve absolutely had it with boys and their bloody whinging. _Please_ tell me you’re free later? Let’s do something fun, Herms. _Hermione_. Please.”   
“Of course,” Hermione agreed readily, “Come over to my dorm in the evening. You’ve got your OWL’s coming up; I can help you brush up on Muggle Studies...”   
“ _Hermioneeeee_ ,” Ginny whined in agony.   
Hermione ignored her. “...I’m sure Seamus will let us borrow the gramophone. My dad’s sent me a ‘Best of the Seventies’ record – I will teach you some killer Travolta disco moves.”   
Ginny’s eyes twinkled, “I have no idea what any of that means, but I’m sure it’s definitely something I need to learn.”

 

* * *

 

The sky was clear and powder blue, the sun was warm and golden, and according to the _Daily Prophet_ , six people had been killed in the last twenty-four hours: A group of three muggleborns slaughtered and laid out under a looming dark mark, one member of the Wizengamot known for taking a strong stance against convicted Death Eaters, one young shopboy running errands in Diagon Alley, and one... _fuck_... one five year old boy who’d been brutally and fatally ravaged by Fenrir Greyback.   
Hermione folded the paper and shoved it into her bag, as if the act of putting it away would somehow erase all the tales of horror it was loaded with. But when she closed her eyes to collect herself, the back of her eyelids presented her with scenes of gore and blood-soaked damnation.   


In a note entirely unlike the usual, her parents had written to her about the wave of terror that had gripped the nation – the kind that hadn’t been seen since the ‘Yorkshire Ripper’ had been put away over a decade ago. There was a savage new serial killer on the loose, the Police claimed. “ _Don’t trust strangers... keep your doors and windows locked at all times..._ ”   

The Death Eaters had declared open season on muggles, and apparently the Prophet didn’t think that it deserved any coverage. Hermione ditched breakfast and went to the library, where she sat down to write a letter –

 

_Dear Tonks,_  
  


_It’s been a while since I last heard from you. I hope you’re doing well, and things are all under control. Harry mentioned seeing you in Hogwarts last week; I wish I had known you were visiting – it would have been nice to catch up._

_However, the reason I’m writing to you now isn’t to exchange pleasantries. There has been an alarming upsurge in reports of unsolved homicides in muggle newspapers. Muggles are being mysteriously murdered all across the country, with no discernable pattern, and no viable evidence left at the crime scenes. I think you know full well who’s behind all this.  
I need to know that the Auror department is taking this as seriously as it is the murders of witches and wizards. The Prophet hasn’t said a word about it... but I suppose that is to be expected. _

_Hope to hear from you soon._

_Love,  
Hermione_

 

Her hand was trembling by the time she got to the end. She would give Tonks two days – if she didn’t get a satisfactory reply by then... well. She needed to formulate a game plan of her own, regardless.   
In the summer before fifth year, Mad-Eye, Shacklebolt, and Tonks had placed a variety of protective enchantments on her parent’s home; but after all her research, Hermione knew that that wasn’t good enough by half. Her parents were essentially sitting ducks at this very moment.   
The fidelius charm was out of the question... there was no way she could warn her mum and dad against giving out their address without them retaliating with a billion questions. And of course she could NOT tell them the truth without her dad rushing off to collect his ornamental kukri from the mantle, and her mum breaking into a rousing chant of “ _el pueblo unido, jamás será vencido”._  
...Even if she found a spell powerful enough to keep her parents fully and wholly safe, her absence would draw them out. If she just disappeared, they’d be devastated beyond _anything_ , and they’d organise huge search parties... almost certainly rope in that patient of theirs who worked for the MI6...

In the midst of this acutely upsetting, paralysing, demoralising, terrorising dilemma, a face appeared in her mind’s eye. It confused her at first; what the sodding hell was Gilderoy Lockhart popping up in her head for?

 

And then.   
Oh, _and then._   


The quest for the perfect solution was absorbing enough to keep her from truly grasping the enormity of the consequences of that particular plan of action... The library contained over twenty-five books on advanced memory charms, after all.

 

* * *

  

_  
...my assignments are restricted to guarding Hogsmeade, or the occasional high level ministry official. I’m not in touch with anybody from the muggle surveillance unit, but I’m sure adequate measures are being taken. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help..._

Hermione crumpled up Tonks' derisory response and chucked it into the common room fire.

“What was that?” Ron asked. Both he and Harry were watching her inquisitively.   
“Nothing,” Hermione muttered.   
Ron frowned, but Harry just shrugged and went back to watching the Malfoy-dot on his Marauder’s map, waiting for it to move towards the seventh floor corridor.

 

“Four muggles were murdered today,” Hermione whispered after a few beats of silence.   
Harry and Ron looked appropriately disturbed, but neither of them thought to ask her about her parents.

 

* * *

  

The shuffling of feet, grating of chairs, and a rapid intensification of chatter ensued the moment Flitwick dismissed the class. As students poured out of the room, Hermione turned to Harry and Ron and said, “You two go ahead; I want to get the first draft of my assignment looked over...”

They left, (Ron rolled his eyes dramatically) and soon, Hermione was alone in the room with the tiny charms professor.   
“Is there something you need, Ms. Granger?” he asked curiously.   
“Yes, professor. I came across a very interesting book on memory charms in the library the other day, and it mentioned this one spell... _omitto_... but it didn’t quite say what it did...”   
“Ah yes!” Flitwick beamed, “It’s a rather nifty variant of the _obliviate_ charm. It’s reversible, for one... as long as you know the exact memories that have been omitted. It’s also easier to target and replace memories with this spell. But absolute clarity is necessary – you have to cover every single detail of the memory being erased, as well as that of the memory you wish to plant. Extremely complicated stuff...” Flitwick paused to eye her for a moment, and then continued, “If you will accompany me to my office, I can give you a book that will explain it all clearly...”   
“Oh, I’d really appreciate that, Professor!” Hermione gushed enthusiastically.   
“Come along, then.”  


* * *

 

It was settled.   
An outward facing arc – _Fragmen omitto –_ and a sharp upward flick. That was the spell that would expunge her existence from the memories of the reasons for her existence.

 

It was settled, and she was so agonisingly _un_ settled.    


One-thirty AM.

Hermione sat curled up on a window ledge a short distance from the door to the astronomy tower. Staring out into the night, she was sickened by her thoughts, and her plans, and herself. What kind of monster would tinker with such wonderful minds? What kind of reprehensible ingrate would obliterate her own parents’ memories? What right did she have to shred and patch up something as fragile and personal as that?

  

“Hermione?”   
She jumped, nearly tumbling onto the unforgiving floor.   
“...Theo?! You gave me such a fright! What are you doing here?”   
“What are _you_ doing here?”   
Hermione raised a brow at his sad attempt at deflection. “Thinking,” she averred.

He stared at her searchingly; it was the type of disconcerting scrutiny that saw through any facade she might try to put forth. Damn it, he knew her far too well.   
“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.   
“Nothing.”   
“No. Something is wrong.”   
Hermione turned back to the blackness beyond the window and sighed. And then she told him everything. Saying it all out loud – putting the entire scheme in words and vocalising them – turned her stomach in the most grievous manner. She couldn’t breathe properly.   


“It’s the right thing to do, Hermione.”   
Oh, how she had longed to hear that, _exactly_ _that_ , straightforward, direct, clear-cut...   
“Is it?” she whimpered.   
“ _Absolutely._ I’d do exactly the same, if I had the option.”

Hermione pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, hoping to send back the tears that were threatening to make an appearance.

“Come with me,” Theo murmured, pulling her hands down gently.   
“Where to?” she rasped.   
“Just come,” he stated simply, “But first...” he pulled out his wand, aimed it at her (the fact that she didn’t even flinch was a testament to how much she trusted him), and whispered a spell.    
Feeling a trickle of magic shimmy down her body, Hermione asked, “You disillusioned me?”   
“Yes. Now follow me.”

 

Silently, he led her down to the fifth floor, all the way to the music room.    
“Stay in the shadows, and don’t make a sound,” Theo whispered. Then he walked inside, leaving the door open just long enough for Hermione to slip in. She crouched in a darkened nook beside a large shelf, as Theo settled on a chaise longue way off at another end.

In the middle of the room was a beautiful mahogany piano, behind which sat Draco Malfoy, giving Theo a look that was amused and exasperated in equal parts.

“You’ve followed me here as well? Merlin, Theo. Your persistence knows no bounds.”   
“I just wanted to hear you play, you arsehole,” Theo replied superciliously, “It’s been a while.”   
“You’ve been hanging around Gryffindor twats for too long. It’s decimated your ability to lie convincingly.”   
“Just shut up and play, will you?”   
With that,Theo closed his eyes and reclined against the arm of the chaise longue.

Malfoy smirked. And then he started to play.

 

It was one of Chopin’s nocturnes, though Hermione couldn’t say which one, exactly. From the very first note a sort of glorious resplendence usurped the atmosphere – the candlelit sepia tone of the room turned into enchanted golden dust. It was too forceful to be tranquillity... too powerful to be soothing... too overwhelming to be comforting. But it was a thing of beauty. It was fucking _absolute_ beauty, and it suddenly, jarringly permeated through Hermione’s constricting hopelessness.   
Beauty.   
_Beauty, truth, and rarity._  
  
Malfoy’s eyes were intent on the keys. His hands danced over them elegantly, like his fingers were performing a perfectly synchronised dance. Hermione couldn’t look away from them as they skittered mesmerizingly.   
_Grace in all simplicity._

  
Who could object to melancholy when it tasted so sweet? Every crisp note performed the gentlest twirl as it made way for the next... together they formed an effulgent wave of pathos... a molten swell of all-pervading melodious poignancy.

The impression of the final fragment of music lingered long after Malfoy had ceased playing. In those moments brimming with overpowering... _something_ ness, Hermione just breathed. She wasn’t who she was. Malfoy wasn’t Malfoy as he gazed expressively at the empty air in front of him. Theo wasn’t Theo, lying back with his eyes close. They were all just objects once all their meretricious masks and projections had been leached away by corrosive tendrils of true, rare beauty.   
_Here enclos’d in cinders lie.  
_

When the fugue had lifted, Theo and Malfoy dawdled towards the door with heavy steps.   
“How’s Pansy doing?” Malfoy asked hoarsely.   
“What are you asking me for?” Theo asked, giving him an odd look, “I’m dead to her, remember?”   
“Right. I just thought you might’ve seen her around...”   
“Um, sure,” Theo replied, still wearing a perplexed expression, “She was in the common room this evening, blabbering on about some new robes she’d ordered from Milan.”   
With a short, hollow laugh, Malfoy doused all the tapers in the room.

 

Hermione was left alone in the dark where she sat unmoving... still just breathing.

 

* * *

 

Three days later she was sobbing into her pillow after opening a package from home that included a collection of short stories by Kafka, a box full of tea cakes from her favourite bakery, ‘The Stone Roses’ on vinyl, and a two page comic hand drawn by her dad, titled, ‘ _When Evelyn_ _McCowan-Granger Cooks: A bleak tale of Trepidation and Despair_ ’. 

There was also a copy of _The Telegraph_ ; ‘MYSETRIOUS STRING OF DEATHS CONTINUES... ANDERSON FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN THEIR DINING ROOM – CAUSE OF DEMISE UNCLEAR... SHOCKING: DECOMPOSED CORPSE FOUND FLOATING IN THE FOUNTAIN AT TRAFALGAR SQUARE...’ 

 

* * *

   


Hermione’s discomposure was at its peak on Wednesday afternoon.

She stood in a line between Gregory Goyle and Daphne Greengrass, bouncing on the balls of her feet, studiously ignoring the hulking boy and the sneering girl that flanked her. She was minutes away from her Apparition test, and she’d never been good at dealing with pre-examination nerves.

On top of everything, Ron had developed a new infuriating habit – he’d taken to diving behind her the moment he thought he spotted anything remotely resembling a girl. Each time, Hermione had to assure him that it wasn’t Lavender, and then he’d straighten up awkwardly. Was there anything more ludicrous than a tall, strapping lad cowering behind a scraggy girl, nearly a foot shorter? ...Oh yes there was: An overwrought half-giant expecting students to break curfew to honour the passing of a colossal, man-eating spider.

Students were being called, one by one, to the middle of the Great Hall, where Twycross and two other ministry officials stood waiting expectantly. One was a rather severe looking old woman with a clipboard in hand, and the other was a plump, shabbily dressed man with thinning ginger hair, who felt compelled to break into a round of applause whenever a student passed.   
He was presently engaged in one such bout after Hannah Abbot successfully went from point A to B.   
Terry Boot passed. Mandy Brocklehurst passed. In fact, there were quite a few success stories... only Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley had failed so far...   
Seamus whopped with delight on passing.   
Twycoss tut-tutted dismally when Goyle bungled up his test. Hermione couldn’t suppress a smirk of satisfaction when he lumbered away, looking sour.

“Granger,” the stern woman called out.  
 _Destination... Determination... Deliberation...  
_ She didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to brace herself – and then she was being squeezed through oblivion... and _crack!_ Victory!   
“Excellent as always, Ms. Granger,” Twycross praised warmly.   
The dumpy ginger man went berserk.

  
Hermione lingered by the edge of the hall, wanting to see how Theo and Ron fared. To her delight, Daphne Greengrass stumbled over her fine silk robes while attempting to spin.   
“Oh come on! I tripped! Let me have another go!”   
Her objections were duly ignored.   
Theo disapparated flawlessly. When he reappeared, he was wearing a lovely, broad grin... aimed directly at her. She returned his gleeful expression in kind.

 

Finally, it was Ron’s turn. Hermione bit her lip in anticipation, more nervous for him than she had been for herself. Ron took a deep breath... closed his eyes... and spun.   
He did it. Seconds later, he was standing within the circle of the wooden hoop, blinking in disbelief at himself. Mister Enthusiasm brought his hands together, primed to clap-clap-clap, but he was interrupted by Madam Hostility.   
“Hold on. What’s this here?” she demanded while pointing at nothing. The two men peered closely at the tip of her finger.   
“I believe,” Twycross drawled drolly, “that that is half of Mr. Weasley’s eyebrow.”   
“Fail!” the woman barked, “Okay, next; Zabini!”

 

Outrage, indignation, and displeasure fulminated on Ron’s cherry-red face as he stormed out of the Great Hall. Hermione raced after him, catching him just as he was beginning to climb up the grand staircase.   
“Ron...!”   
“Half an eyebrow. _Half a fucking eyebrow_. Seriously? HALF AN EYEBROW?!”   
“I’m so sorry...”   
“Argh. I can’t believe they failed me over _half an eyebrow_!” he groused feverishly.   
Hermione attempted to temper his fury with consoling platitudes, and it worked to a certain extent – Ron’s weakness for mollycoddling was dead useful sometimes.

They were intercepted by Dean and Ginny outside the Gryffindor portrait hole, and Hermione left Ron to grumble at them.

 

“Harry!” she cried the moment she entered the common room, “Harry, I passed!”   
Harry smiled widely and said, “Well done! And Ron?”   
“He –” Hermione faltered, “He _just_ failed. It was really unlucky; a tiny thing. The examiner spotted that he’d left half an eyebrow behind.” Harry grimaced sympathetically. “How did it go with Slughorn?” she asked, hoping he’d made some headway during the scantily populated potion’s lesson that afternoon.   
“No joy,” Harry replied dully.   
Ron slid in though the portrait hole then, and morosely plodded over and joined them.   
“Bad luck, mate,” Harry offered bracingly, “but you’ll pass next time – we can take it together.”   
“Yeah, I s’pose. But half an eyebrow!” Ron exclaimed for the nth time, “Like that matters!”   
“I know,” Hermione consoled, “it does seem really harsh…”   


* * *

  
 

Later that evening, Hermione, Harry, and Ron watchfully slinked up to the boy’s dormitory, after making sure that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all otherwise occupied. It had been a while since Hermione had been there – nothing different about it, though. ‘Teenage boy clutter’ was a fairly constant phenomenon. 

Harry plunged into his trunk, burrowing his arm all the way up to the elbow, and extracted a minuscule bottle from within its depths. Felix Felicis. Hermione still couldn’t believe that using it to finally gain the upper hand over Slughorn had been _Ron’s_ idea.

 

“Well, here goes.”   
Harry knocked back a careful gulp as Hermione looked on in awe, and he had only just lowered the bottle when she asked, “What does it feel like?”    
He merely stared back at her for a few seconds, as if perturbed by how anticlimactic the moment had been… but then, slowly, a look of absolute, vivacious wonderment bloomed on his face. He positively beamed, hopped onto his feet spryly and spoke with uncharacteristic merriment, ““Excellent. Really excellent. Right … I’m going down to Hagrid’s.”   
"What?” Ron and she spoke at the same time, in matching astounded tones.   
“No, Harry,” Hermione prompted, “You’ve got to go and see Slughorn, remember?”   
Harry was the living, breathing, (raving) embodiment of self-assurance. “No. I’m going to Hagrid’s; I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.”   
“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?” asked Ron, thoroughly appalled.   
The Almighty Chosen One pulled his supreme invisibility cloak out of his bag. “Yeah,” he expounded, “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?”  
“No.” Ron and she once again spoke in harmony.  
Hermione nervously examined the golden liquid glittering inside the tiny bottle Harry had drunk from. “This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?” she said fretfully, “You haven’t got another little bottle full of – I don’t know –”   
“Essence of Insanity?” Ron offered.   
Harry – well, Harry’s disembodied head – laughed. “Trust me,” he said as he walked towards the stairs while fixing his cloak and disappearing completely, “I know what I’m doing… or at least Felix does.”   


Hermione and Ron shared a brief distressed look, before hastening to follow him. The door was open – so presumably Harry had made it out; but before they could take another step, their path was cut off by Lavender Brown… Lavender Brown who at that moment could be called Scarlett Crimson. 

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING UP THERE WITH HER?” she hollered.   
“OH! Uh… Lavender… _fuck,_ okay, look… this isn’t… it wasn’t… we weren’t…”   
Ladies and gents, if you ever require top quality inarticulate spluttering during unfortunately awkward situations, Ron Weasley is your man!   
“YOU WEREN’T WHAT? GO ON TELL ME!”   
“We weren’t…. weren’t… _anything_ , alright?! It was nothing! Nothing!”   
Hermione tried to intercede, “Lavender, Ron and I were just talking…”   
“ _You_ _shut the fuck up, you slag_. You’ve been trying to steal my boyfriend from day one! You shameless hussy – you – you – ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?”   


Well then. There were basically two ways to deal with this situation:

  1. By responding in kind, i.e., screaming back righteously, raging at being called such vile names, having it out, unleashing a proper slanging match, et cetera. 
  2. By bowing out... Because fuck that; it so wasn’t her scene.



 

Hermione raised her palms in surrender, and escaped out the door, careful to avoid brushing against Lavender. The door slammed shut behind her.   
She breathed deeply.   
Then she realised that there was another loud argument occurring in front of the portrait hole.

  
“I didn’t fucking push you, Ginny! I haven’t so much as touched you in _weeks_.... not that you’d notice, of course...”   
“ _Oh Merlin’s rod_. Don’t start that again. Honestly, Dean... will you EVER stop complaining?!”   
“Sure, when _you_ stop nagging and biting my head off for no bloody reason...”

 

Good lord, Harry had left a trail of absolute destruction in his wake. Perhaps that was how Felix Felicis worked – it maximised its drinker’s luck while drastically diminishing the luck of those around them to maintain the general balance of fortune.   
Hermione didn’t need to think twice before scampering out of the common room. The thought of passing the evening in the library made her soul sing, and the prospect of spending a good portion of that time in Theo’s company warmed her heart.   
  
As she was walking past the Transfiguration section, angry loud-whispers seeped out from between the bookshelves.   


“Do you even know what you’re saying?! That makes no sense – shit, you’re such an _idiot_.” That was definitely, undoubtedly Padma speaking.   
A male voice retorted heatedly: “So I made one mistake! You don’t have to be such a harping bitch about it!”   
“ _How dare you_?! I don’t know what I ever saw in you...”   


Shaking her head, Hermione quickened her pace. She was truly desperate to reach her oasis of serenity.  

 

* * *

  

Half past midnight, and Hermione sat alone in the Gryffindor common room. Harry still hadn’t returned from the Felicis-trip. She gnawed at her lip in worry... the potion had to have worn out hours ago. Where could he be?  


She curled up on at sofa, determined to stay up till he got back. Not that going to her dorm was an option – the collective scorn of Lavender and Parvati had formed an impenetrable force field at the door...

 

 

The next thing she knew, Harry was shaking her awake.   
“Harry... Where _were_ you? What time is it?”

“Dunno. Late. I was in Dumbledore’s office. I got the memory, Hermione! Fuck, I have so much to tell you... but... tomorrow, alright? I’m knackered.”

 

* * *

 

 


	22. Twenty-Two

  
Human consciousness is immeasurably complex; the id, ego, and superego – for lack of better labels – come together to construct a complete sense of identity that make human beings one of the greatest examples gestalt. A cluster of organs, bones, and muscles, connected via various systems, encased in tissue... are turned into a _person_.  
Hermione didn’t believe in the soul: not in the sense theological dictums had built it up to be.  
She didn’t believe in some divinely touched essence capable of outliving its mortal vessel. She certainly didn’t believe it was something that could be torn into tiny bits like a loaf of bread, and scattered around a forest.

Then Harry told her about Horcruxes.

She couldn’t wrap her head around the concept. Through an act of evil you could splinter your so-called soul and contain it in an outside object, and thus attain immortality of a kind. _What_?  
When in doubt, go back to the Greeks.  
Aristotle didn’t believe the soul and body could be separated: that was no help at all. The Epicureans, however, considered the soul to be made up of atoms – just like everything else. That could work.  
Say it _is_ a fragment of your consciousness that you’re putting away... how did the absence of this fragment affect the whole? And this fragment... did it form a whole in itself? If not, the Horcrux would hold only a part of your essence – only a fraction of who you are...

 

“Hermione, why are you scowling at Dennis? Poor kid looks like he’s going to shit himself...”

She started, smoothening her expression and looking away immediately.  
“Sorry,” she muttered to Ron, and flashed a rueful half-smile at Dennis, “I suppose got lost in thought.”

Ron grinned at her and shook his head, looking simultaneously bemused and delighted. It was the kind of wide and charming grin that ought to have set her heart racing and her cheeks flushing and her stomach twisting in on itself. Hermione waited and waited... but after nothing more than a feeble twinge in her gut, she simply smiled back at him.  
She looked over at Harry, and he was, once again, engrossed in his damned potions textbook, probably looking for some secret spell that would help him break into the Room of Requirement. With Katie’s return, he was even more determined to catch Malfoy red-handed.  
Hermione wanted to shake him. You’d think that after finding out that there were four pieces of Voldemort’s soul/essence/consciousness/ego(mania) left to be sought and destroyed, he’d be more focused on bigger things.

 

“Hullo, you lot,” Ginny chimed, skipping up to them and dropping down on the sofa between Harry and Ron.  
The former dropped his book, ink, quill, and composure on the floor as he stuttered over a greeting in response. The latter beamed at his sister.  
“Hullo yourself.”  
The Weasley siblings were radiant in the wake of their respective split-ups, even while their ex-partners skulked around the place looking miserable and irate.

“Katie’s back!” Ron sang, “Did you see?”  
“Yes!” Ginny trilled back, “No more McLaggen, no more Dean... The original line up is back, baby! We’re going to kick Ravenclaw’s arse in the next match!” 

Ginny’s hearty proclamation was augment by a cheery _hear, hear_ from the boys, and the three of them settled into an impassioned discussion about strategy and formation and what have you.

 

Hermione was bored to the _soul_.

 

* * *

  
 

Her hand was shaking like mad as she wrote: _Your potions essay is between pages 16 and 17 of your textbook._

Taking a huge gulp of air, she summoned forth all her courage and concentration. Then she pointed her wand at herself.  
She closed her eyes, sharpening her thoughts to one single point...  
  
“ _Fragmen omitto.”_  

One. Two. Three.  
Slowly, she opened her eyes, feeling horribly disappointed. The spell hadn’t worked. But it fucking _had_ to work. It had to had to had to had to...  
_Get a grip._  
A few shuddering breaths later, Hermione turned back to her potions essay, ready to give it one final look-over......... the parchment before her was _not_ her potion’s essay. Huh.  
It was empty, save for one sentence...

Oh. _Oh._  
The spell had worked.

A few more harmless experiments later, Hermione trudged out of the library, tired but fairly satisfied. While her parents would require an infinitely more complex version of the spell, the facility with which she had accomplished these minor trials put her at ease.

  
Her peace of mind was shot to hell the moment she entered her dormitory.  
“I hope you’re happy,” were the words Lavender used to greet her, in a voice that was heavy with acrimony.  
Hermione had nothing to say back – no words of solace, of contrition (not that she owed Lavender any), nor of reciprocated bitterness. She mutely walked over to her wardrobe, blindly took out the first pair of pajamas she could reach, and hurried towards the bathroom door.  
Obviously – _obviously_ – Lavender wasn’t finished.  
“You stole him from me. It’s what you’d planned from the beginning, wasn’t it... you’re such a _whore_ –”  
“That’s enough, Lavender,” Hermione cut in sharply.  
From the corner where she’d been timidly watching the show, Parvati entreated, “Come on, Lav... let’s go down to the common room and finish our divination homework...”  
“You go!” Lavender yelled stroppily, “Little Miss Priss and I need to have it out.”  
With flashing eyes, she marched right into Hermione’s personal space and hissed, “You just always get what you want, don’t you? What were you two really doing up in his dorm last night? You threw yourself at him, I’ll bet. Oh, I’ve been watching you dance around him for years like a total _trollop_. You couldn’t stand to see him with me, could you? ...Couldn’t stand to see him happy. Just you wait. He’ll come crying back to me soon, when he remembers how much your fucking nagging gets to him, and how horrid your hair is. You should have heard him go on about you; don’t fool yourself into thinking he actually _likes_ you –”

To Hermione’s absolute horror, she felt her temper-sensitive tear ducts threaten to begin leaking. Quivering with anger and humiliation, she positively growled, “Listen here you gobby cow... Ron broke up with you because you were jealous, intolerably clingy, and all-in-all painful to be around. It has nothing, NOTHING, to do with me. Now get out of my face before I hex your hair into something so hideous that you’ll spend the rest of your life envying mine.”

Lavender backed away with an outraged gasp, clearing the path to the bathroom. As Hermione marched down it, Lavender issued her parting shot: “He really can’t stand you, you know. Thinks you’re a bit of a joke. If you didn’t help him with his homework, he’d have told you to fuck off ages ago...”  
Hermione slammed the bathroom door shut, and leant heavily against it, rubbing her temples in exhaustion. Lavender’s hysterical rant permeated through the thick wood of the door and bounced off the tiles.  
  
“...A boring, prissy swot with no figure to speak of...”

 

* * *

 

  
“How would you define the soul?”

It seemed as good a moment as any to strike up a philosophical discussion.  
Spring was in full bloom – balmy weather, cloudless skies, fresh verdure, the works. Hermione and Theo lay side by side on the soft grass by the lake, staring up the vast expanse of clear blue above them.

 “I wouldn’t dare to try.”

Hermione make a small reproachful noise and said, “Humour me, Theo. I’d like a pureblood’s perspective.”  
He was quiet for a while, apparently attempting to piece together a lucid explanation.  
“Well, I suppose it’s your... core essence. Where your magic resides.”  
“So... some form of energy then?” Hermione asked, intrigued.  
“Partly. But it’s also... well, it’s _you_. And not just your personality and morality and all that. I mean, it _is_ all that, but more. It’s um... your _heart_...”  
“But all that’s a construction of your own mind,” Hermione argued, “It’s still tied to you in a very real and physical way...”  
“Not really,” Theo answered thoughtfully, “You can channel and part with your magic; the same is true for the soul. It’s a separate system, in a way. It’s what the Dementors suck out of you with a delightful little buss. I suppose your mind is a part of it, too.”  
“So you’re saying,” Hermione began, half sitting up and resting on her elbow so she could face him fully, and pulled away the bluegreen scarf that he had draped over his eyes, “that the mind is just a constituent of the soul, rather than the soul being a culmination of the mind’s perceptions?”  
“That’s putting it better than I ever could,” Theo said and shrugged, squinting against the sun’s glare.  
Hermione fell back down on her back, watching the glorious cobalt dome of the sky pensively. “This doesn’t gel well with science.”  
Theo let out a short laugh. “Aren’t you used to that by now?”  
“Humph.”  
“WHY are you burdening me with such deep theoretical conversation on a glorious, pleasant, lazy day like today? Lie back and bask in the indolence, Hermione.”  
Hermione looked at him scornfully and said, “I don’t do that. Not ever.”  
“ _Humour me_ ,” he retorted fluently, “Just loaf about with your _buddy_ –”  
“Are you ever going to let that go?”  
“No. Loaf about with your _best_ buddy Theo, and soak up the sun. Don’t move or think for a whole blissful hour. It’s good for –”  
“For the _soul_?” she asked with an arched brow.  
Theo grinned. “Exactly.”

  
It was rather lovely, being stretched out languorously. Hermione let the torpor cloud her senses, and she felt wonderfully floaty.  
_Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore_  
_Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;_  
_O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more._  
She said those lines out loud, and her fellow Lotus Eater grunted in appreciation.

 

The hour ended eventually, as all hours do. Hermione grudgingly hauled herself up, dreading the long, long walk up to the Arithmancy classroom.

Before leaving, she placed a slightly ragged book squarely on Theo’s chest, not waiting to see if he’d acknowledge it. _The Razor’s Edge._ The epigraph was boldly printed on the inside cover – " _The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to ‘enlightenment’ is hard_ " – and she’d stuck a post-it under it, on which she had carefully written out a quote (...tit for tat, the bard for the bard...):

  _There is a tide in the affairs of men_  
_Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;_  
_Omitted, all the voyage of their life_  
_Is bound in shallows and in miseries._  
_On such a full sea are we now afloat,_  
_And we must take the current when it serves,_  
_Or lose our ventures._

On putting the final full stop, she had thought... _your move, Malfoy_.  
It was a rather audacious thing to do, she knew. He wouldn’t recognise her handwriting, but he would definitely ask Theo where he was getting all these books from... if he hadn’t already. Hermione realised with a start that she hadn’t ever considered how Theo was justifying suddenly having access to such a vast bounty of muggle books.  
But she didn’t turn back to ask. The boy lounging by the lake was relaxed, tranquil, and soothed. Mentioning Malfoy would bring an end to all of that.  
 

* * *

 

It was dinner time in the Great Hall, and Harry and Ginny were flirting up a storm over ice-cream and sticky toffee pudding. Ron was entirely oblivious; all his attention was devoted to the ungodly pile on the dish in front of him. But from her vantage point of superior perception ( _well, it was true!_ ), Hermione could clearly see that her two friends were working towards a definite coupling.  
She smiled to herself, and dug into her pudding with zeal.

 

* * *

 

The seven dwarfs sat around a table in the Hogwarts library, mining for diamonds among stacks of books for various homework assignments.  
Doc Granger thought she would have much preferred being in a damp and gloomy underground quarry.

Grumpy Weasley was muttering crabbily from behind _Creature’s of the Dark_ , shooting frequent chary looks at Sneezy Nott – an absolute contrast to his amiable sister, Happy Weasley, who was the over-chipper force that had instigated the coming together of that motley crew. She was taking a break from _not_ working on her essay by drawing out quidditch formations. She tugged at the sleeve of Bashful Potter’s robe and invited him to examine her doodles, at which Bashful flushed, chuckled, and said “That’s a really good plan!”  
Sneezy... well, sneezed, for the zillionth time, and mopped at his red and swollen nose miserably.  
“For fuck’s sake, Nott,” groused Sleepy Finnigan, his tousled head emerging blearily from the cradle of his arms, “Would you stop that already?”  
“I can’t help it, you dick,” Sneezy snapped thickly, “Sodding hay fever, innit? And ’m immune to anti-allergy potions. Fuck pollen. Seriously. _Fuck pol –_ ”  
He sneezed again. Sleepy and Grumpy grunted irritably in harmony.  
Dopey Lovegood (who’d spent most of the afternoon silent and smiling serenely) took a pouch of tiny pellets out of her bag and offered it to Sneezy, who unhesitatingly took a handful and tossed them into his mouth. Almost instantaneously, the red splodges on his face disappeared.  
“Holy shit,” he said in wonder, “I feel fantastic! What were those?”  
“Honey, shrivelfig leaves, and pepperup tablets. My mum’s old recipe,” Dopey replied, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She patted Sneezy’s arm softly.  
“I love you,” Sneezy told her fervently... and immediately his face turned red again.  
“Awwww,” Happy squealed, “Are you two together?”  
“NO!” Sneezy yelped... bashfully.  
“Well, we’re _all_ together right now,” Dopey countered, fairly. “And Theo and I are together at other times, too... But in a very different way. It’s just the two of us then. Theo doesn’t like other people to see us when we are together.”

Of course, Lu– er, _Dopey_ hadn’t meant to say something so thick with innuendo, but it was enough to make Sleepy bury his head in his arms again... but this time to laugh. Happily.  
Happy – that is, the real Happy – was grinning wickedly, while Bashful and Grumpy had identical looks of distaste on their faces. Sneezy had surpassed bashfulness, and was teetering towards mortification...

  
Doc was annoyed. _Nobody_ was staying in character.  
“Simmer down you all,” she whispered hotly, “Else the hunter and the wicked stepmother will find us!”  
Six pairs of eyes stared at her in profound bewilderment.  
“Um, I meant Filtch and Pince.”  
A few seconds of silence later, Bashf – _Harry_ grinned at her. “Don’t worry, Snow white,” he said jocundly, “We won’t let them get you.”  
The remaining five looked between the two of them apprehensively.  
...Actually, all except Luna, who twirled her quill between her fingers and said, “Being together is so wonderful. I love being together.”  
 

 

* * *

 

Hermione flitted about the empty common room with a scrap of parchment in hand, a bit heady and delirious – both from her accomplishment, and the late hour.  
It was three in the morning, and she had successfully made herself forget the location of thirty of her things, as well as convinced herself that she had somehow attended a non-existent Bowie concert at Brixton Academy that night. It had been a heavenly minute-and-a-half.  
She began humming as she unearthed her scrunchie from under a heap of cushions on the floor, and then flew over to the curtains behind which she had hidden her schoolbag.

 _It's a God awful small affair_  
_To the girl with the mousey hair,_  
_But her mummy is yelling, "No!"_  
_And her daddy has told her to go,_  
_But her friend is nowhere to be seen._  
_Now she walks through her sunken dream...._

 

* * *

 

 

Quidditch-mania had claimed the _souls_ of all her housemates. Hermione mourned the loss over a light breakfast of tea and a blueberry muffin, and she attempted to drown out the excited buzzing by focusing her attention on an article in _The Guardian_ about the newly elected muggle Prime Minister. Her parents had been warily optimistic about this Tony Blair...  
“Can I have the sports page, Hermione?” Dean asked from across the table, “I hope United were fucking hammered yesterday...”

  
A little while later, Harry and Coote came in, propping up a very sickly looking Ron between them. Ginny and Demelza trailed in after, looking amused.  
“Ron!” Hermione exclaimed, “What happened?”  
“Nerves,” Ginny answered when Ron merely shook his head, “He just spent an hour in the toilet, throwing up.”  
Apparently, Ron’s anxiety-induced nausea had abated enough for him to shovel down bacon and eggs. And toast. And beans. And Pumpkin juice.  
Hermione wrinkled her nose and turned back to her paper.  
  
When she resurfaced, everybody around her was still talking about the upcoming match. She stood up promptly, but just as she was turning to leave, she caught sight of the look on Dean’s face. He was staring at Ginny and Harry as they sat with their heads close together, talking enthusiastically.  
Something in his expression reminded her of herself... it was probably the exact look she had worn when she watched Ron and Lavender together.  
“Hey Dean,” she called, “I was planning to go look at those massive war paintings outside the history of magic classroom; want to come with?”  
Dean blinked at her in surprise... then understanding... and then gratitude.  
“Yeah. Sure.” He popped the last bit of his toast into his mouth and smiled.

 

* * *

 

It was getting preposterously ridiculous.  
Peakes got into a bloody brawl with two members of the Ravenclaw team; a verbal sparring match spiralled out of control, and ended with two bloody noses, and a fractured ankle. Professor McGonagall, beside herself with fury, had given all three of them detention for the next two nights.

As she dragged the battered thugs away, the crowd that remained wasted no time in rekindling a juvenile rap-battle.

 

* * *

 

An updated internal assessment marks sheet had been posted on the notice board, and Hermione noted with great satisfaction, that she was at the top of all her classes.  
...Except potions.  
The acidic bubbling of antipathy she felt when she saw that dissipated when she become aware of the name under hers in the Ancient Runes column.

 

She gave Theo the happy tidings when they met at the library later that evening.  
“All thanks to you!” he said warmly.  
“Not at all,” Hermione contradicted, “It’s all thanks to the work you put in. If I could pull up a person’s score so easily, Harry and Ron would be among the top students in our year.”  
Theo made a face, “You know darling, I live for the day you’ll finally stop equating me with those arseholes –” Hermione levelled a look at him, “– er, those fine gentlemen.”  
She rolled her eyes, and pointed down at his textbook, wordlessly telling him to get to work.  
“Isn’t Potter topping potions?”  
Hermione gritted her teeth. “ _Don’t_ remind me.”

   
When it was time for them to part, Theo gave her three of her books back. Hermione nervously ran her finger along the hardbound edges of _A Discourse on Inequality_ , before finally harnessing the pluck to ask, “Where have you told him you’re getting these from?”  
“Ah,” Theo’s smirk was far too _loud_ , “I was wondering why you hadn’t asked me about that.”  
“Well?”  
He idly pulled at one of her curls until it was perfectly straight. “Truth is, he hasn’t asked.”  
Hermione frowned in disbelief. She watched him watch her hair spring back into place when he let it go.  
“ _Really_?”  
“ _Really_ ,” he affirmed. He reached for that lock of hair again, and Hermione reared back to avoid his hand.  
“He’s just unquestioningly accepting all these muggle books from you?” she demanded.  
“I suppose he’s made his assumptions,” Theo replied, now twining pieces of her hair around his finger, “It’s not like I’m well acquainted with a lot of muggles or muggleborns.”  
“You mean to say,” Hermione said slowly, “That he _knows_ these books are mine?”  
He closed his fist around the ends of her hair and used the tips to dust his robes, “I’m almost certain he does.”  
“And... he’s still taking them. And reading them.” Hermione was floored. She slapped his wrist until he relinquished his hold on her curls.  
“Evidently,” Theo confirmed, eyeing the top of her head speculatively. Hermione stood up before he could act on whatever he had planned next.  
“Um. Wow.”  
“Isn’t it just?”

He walked her back to her common room, always two steps behind so that he could keep flicking at her hair to make it bounce around wildly.

 

* * *

  
 

Hermione had missed dinner again, but it had been for a decent cause; she had saved herself from Professor Vector’s raised-brows-pursed-lips-utterly-unimpressed look of censure that she would have had to face had she not raced up to her office and asked to make a correction in her essay.  
That hadn’t taken more than a few minutes.  
But then Hermione hadn’t been able to stop herself from asking the uncharacteristically harrowed looking woman what was bothering her, unknowingly opening up a can... nay, an intermodal container... of worms. She now knew too much – far too much – about Vector’s wastrel, ne’er-do-well husband, and the impossibility of arriving at a fair divorce settlement.

Well who’d have _ever_ thought that a composed, put-together woman like that would babble in such an unhinged manner at her student?

 

She entered the common room chuckling incredulously to herself, and suddenly Ron leapt before her with his forehead puckered with worry.  
“Seen Harry?” he demanded.  
“Um, no?” she asked in trepidation, “What is it, Ron? What’s happened?”  
“Dunno,” he replied, nervously tugging at a loose thread on his cuff, “He charged in here ‘bout half an hour back, drenched to the bone and covered in blood... asked me for my potions book and took right off again.”  
“Covered in _blood_?!” Hermione spluttered, horrified. She then noticed Ginny sitting on a nearby armchair, white faced and tight lipped.

It would be fifteen more minutes before Harry returned. In that quarter-hour, Ginny didn’t budge or speak. Ron sat atop the table next to her, bouncing his legs fretfully. Hermione paced before the fireplace, tension making her motion almost robotic.  
_What oh what had Harry got himself into this time?_

His face was ashen when he tripped in through the portrait hole.  
“Harry!” All three of them cried at the same time, with Ron and Ginny shooting up to their feet.  
Harry walked woodenly over to the chair Ginny had just vacated and eased himself into it.  
Hermione knelt before him, softly but urgently asking, “Are you hurt, Harry?”  
He shook his head. “Not my blood.”  
Goose pimples broke down her arms and spine. “Whose... whose is it?” she croaked, while casting a silent, wandless _Tergeo_ on his soaked shirt.  
“It was an accident.”  
“You’re scaring us, mate,” Ron said from behind her.

Harry inhaled deeply. He tapped his finger against his knee once... twice... and then –  
“I... I think I... I... almost.... killed Malfoy.”

 

* * *

 

 


	23. Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

 

The truest, weightiest manifestation of shock is complete immobility: being stunned into a state where your neurons sort of... _disconnect_... so thoroughly that you’re rendered mute and motionless; i.e., total mental and physical paralysis.

It was such a state that fell like a pall upon Hermione, Ron, and Ginny after Harry’s alarming admission. There were other people in the common room – it was only eight-thirty in the evening – but they all faded into irrelevance, and the din and chatter that they were generating was reduced to a stifled hum.

Ron was the first to recover.  
“You... _almost..._ killed Malfoy? _What_?”  
“It was an accident,” Harry repeated numbly, “I didn’t know... That spell... I didn’t expect it to...”  
“You’re not making any sense,” Ron put forward plainly, “Why don’t you start at the beginning, yeah?”  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, nodding in appreciation of Ron’s astute suggestion, “Alright. I was on the seventh floor, checking for Malfoy on the Marauder’s map, when I saw that he was in a loo... with Moaning Myrtle, of all people. Erm, ghosts... ghost-people –” Harry shook his head at himself, “–Anyway. He... Malfoy... was crying over a sink –”  
“Malfoy was _crying_?”  
It was the barely-suppressed note of glee in Ron’s voice that revived Hermione’s vocal chords.  
“Then what happened?” she prompted urgently.

Bit by bit, Harry ran through the horrific tale. An impromptu duel... an unknown curse... an explosion of blood...

“Is he going to be okay?” Hermione asked shakily, after Harry was done.  
“Snape burst in almost immediately,” he replied, “Like he’d been close by. He patched Malfoy up and took him to the hospital wing. He was still unconscious, though...”  
“Blimey,” Ron breathed.  
“What’s going to happen to you?” Ginny asked, perching herself on the arm of Harry’s chair.  
“Detention,” Harry said glumly, “Every Saturday ‘til the end of term. It’s a good thing I was able to hide the Prince’s book; fuck knows what would’ve happened if Snape got a hold of it...”  
“Where’d you put it?”  
“Room of requirement.”  
“Hold on,” Ron piped up in an unexpectedly loud cry, “Every Saturday...? What about the quidditch final?”  
Harry’s face contorted, as he let out a devastated sigh. “I won’t be playing.”  
“No!” Ron and Ginny gasped in unison.  
“It’s the most important game of the season!” Ron spluttered.  
  
That, Hermione decided, was the last straw. These people were falling into pieces over _quidditch_ , summarily dismissing the near-manslaughter that had taken place no more than an hour ago. She felt sick... absolutely _sick_... and steeled herself to steer the conversation back onto a more significant path.  
“I told you there was something wrong with that Prince person... And I was right, wasn’t I?”  
The look Harry gave her was dangerously poisonous. “No, I don’t think you were.”  
“Harry,” she said incredulously, “how can you still stick up for that book when that spell –”  
“Will you stop harping on about the book!” he retorted irritably, “The Prince only copied it out! It’s not like he was advising anyone to use it! For all we know, he was making a note of something that had been used against him!”  
Hermione felt her eyes go round with astonishment. “I don’t believe this. You’re actually defending –”  
“I’m not defending what I did!” Harry cut in hastily. “I wish I hadn’t done it, and not just because I’ve got about a dozen detentions. You know I wouldn’t’ve used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, but you can’t blame the Prince, he hadn’t written ‘try this out, it’s really good’ – he was just making notes for himself, wasn’t he, not for anyone else…”  
“Are you telling me,” she asked while gaping at him, “that you’re going to go back –?”  
“And get the book? Yeah, I am,” Harry said with a hardened look, “Listen, without the Prince I’d never have won the Felix Felicis. I’d never have known how to save Ron from poisoning, I’d never have –”  
“– got a reputation for Potions brilliance you don’t deserve,” Hermione spat. She felt aflamed. She felt enraged. She felt...    
“Give it a rest, Hermione!”  
...She felt utterly perturbed and infuriated as she snapped her gaze unto Ginny at her sudden exclamation.    
“By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to use an Unforgivable Curse,” Ginny continued, “you should be glad Harry had something good up his sleeve!”  
Hermione blenched. “Well, of course I’m glad Harry wasn’t cursed! But you can’t call that Sectumsempra spell good, Ginny, look where it’s landed him!” When she saw that none of her companions thawed at that declaration, she attempted to speak in a language they were more likely to respond to, “... And I’d have thought, seeing what this has done to your chances in the match –”  
“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand quidditch. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Her blood temperature shot way past its boiling point. Ginny’s jaw was set pugnaciously, and at that moment Hermione felt nothing but genuine hostility towards the girl. What if she were to start listing out all the things Ginny didn’t understand? All the many, countless things that not one of those upright _cunts_ understood... not Harry, who was staring up at Ginny in wondrous gratitude, and not Ron, who was glancing between the three of them with a look of gormless discomfort on his face...

It was always her versus them. There she goes again! Hermione having a right flap about the wrong thing, as usual.

A deep, _long_ breath later, Hermione addressed Harry.  
“May I see the Marauder’s map, please?” Her tone was brusque, but polite. Well accomplished, she had to say.  
“Why?” Harry asked, eyeing her suspiciously.  
“I need to find Theo.”  
“Oh, sure,” Ginny said nastily, “Run off to him, why don’t you?”  
Hermione ignored her. When Harry grudgingly handed her the map, she wasted no time in activating it and began frantically searching for the appropriately labelled dot.  
There – in an empty classroom near the hospital wing, dot-Theo was pacing up and down and up and down...  

Hermione returned the map, rose fluidly onto her feet, and stalked towards the portrait hole. She felt Harry, Ron, and Ginny’s eyes on her back all the way. They felt like three searing stab wounds.

 

* * *

 

  
By the time she got to him, Theo had stopped pacing.  
For a few moments, Hermione stood at the door and watched him. He was sitting on a desk, stooped, with his face buried in his hands. The room was awash in blueblack and dark violet hues, save for a few moonbeams that streamed in through high windows, one of which was delineating his silhouette in fine silver strokes, turning him into a heartbreakingly poetic picture of tragedy.  
He sat like Pathos on a monument... drowning in grief.

With a painful lump in her throat, Hermione shuffled over to him and whispered, “Theo.”  
He didn’t budge, nor make any sound of acknowledgement. Tentatively, Hermione placed a hand on his hunched shoulder, and said once more, “Theo.”  
“What the _fuck_ , Hermione.”  
His voice came out muffled from behind his palms, but the husky, broken tenor revealed to her that he was – or very recently had been – crying.  
Theo... crying. It knocked the wind right out of her. And she had no idea what to say. All that she could think to do was move closer and wrap her arms around him, resting her head between his shoulder blades. Proximity allowed her to feel the way he was shaking jerkily, the way his breathing was erratic and laboured.  
She squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m _so sorry_.”  
“What... the... fu...ck,” he gasped.

She held him tightly until the she felt the last of his juddering. In the stillness that followed, she cautiously asked, “How is he?”  
“In a coma,” Theo replied throatily, “The wounds have healed, but he lost _so much blood_. They don’t know how long... how long... how... _fuck_.”  
With that, Theo shook himself free of her arms, and strode across the room. He seemed, suddenly, to become possessed by some vehement agitation; the moonlight-aura around him appeared to ripple with the intensity of it.  
“What the _fuck_ ,” he roared with this renewed vigour, “was Potter thinking?”  
Hermione swallowed. “He didn’t know...”  
“He didn’t know _what_?” Theo rounded on her.  
It was the first proper look she’d gotten of his face, and the ashen pallor of it... his puffy the bloodshot eyes... were like another punch to her gut.  
“He didn’t know what that spell would do,” she replied quietly. He curled his lip vituperatively, and Hermione hastened to reaffirm her claim, “I swear, Theo. He had no idea... he panicked and shot the first thing he could think of. He didn’t know that it would... um...”  
“That it would nearly kill Draco? Oh _really_? The spell just popped up in his head out of nowhere, eh?”  
“He’d read it. Somewhere.”

The look that Theo gave her then turned the dreadful sickened feeling in her stomach into acid. Her insides _burned_.  
“He’d read it,” Theo repeated bitterly, “Somewhere.”  
“ _Yes_ ,” Hermione pressed pathetically, “And Malfoy was about to use the Cruciatus curse on him –”  
“Oh, so you’re saying he deserved to be flayed to death?!”  
“NO! It was an impossibly tense situation, and –”  
“That Cruciatus curse wouldn’t have fucking worked anyway,” he muttered, scraping his nails through his hair.  
Hermione was stumped. “What... what do you mean?”

Another abrupt change of demeanour struck Theo. It looked as though desolation had dropped from a great height straight onto his shoulders, and he sagged under the weight of it. He staggered towards the closest chair and fell into it.  
“Draco wouldn’t have pulled off much of a crucio,” he sighed wretchedly, “You really have to _mean_ it... to want to inflict the worst sort of pain imaginable... to revel in it...” Hermione made a small sound, and he looked up at her resentfully, “Yes, I know you think that just because Draco’s called you names and played mean tricks on you, he’s capable of _torturing_ people. But I happen to think I know him better. At worst, your precious Chosen One would’ve felt a short spasm... a twinge... Not even that, given the state Draco was in...”  
“Harry said he was crying... before...”  
Theo closed his red-rimmed eyes, overpowered by ineffable grief. “Yeah,” he choked, “He’d gotten a letter from Lucius earlier today. Fucked him up real bad. It took me hours to get it out of him... apparently the Dark Lord had a bit of a temper flare-up and decided to take it out on Narcissa.”

A lone, pearly tear trailed down his narrow cheekbone. It caught the moonlight spectacularly. For the first time, Hermione felt that she was _lucky,_ having the option to alter her parent’s memories to keep them safe. She slowly made her way towards Theo and gently wiped away the gleaming drop that had come to a precarious halt at the point of his chin. 

“Are they here? Mr and Mrs Malfoy...?”  
“No. Snape thought it would be best if we didn’t tell them. He’s probably right. ... _Merlin_ , Hermione. I... I can’t... I can _not_ deal with this anymore. D-Draco... The way he looks right now... bloodless... still... _so still_... it’s one of my worst nightmares made real. I just... I...”  
His head fell back into his hands, as he sobbed in earnest.  
  
Every bit and component that Hermione was made of turned stone cold in despair. She realised that there were very few things that disturbed her as much as the sight of Theo crying. It tore at her, viscerally. Helplessly, she reached out to touch him...

 

“Theo?”  
The lilting, dulcet call came from the door, and both Hermione and Theo started. Clad in her purple, fuzzy robe, Luna glided into the room. She kept her eyes on Theo and came to an uncertain stop a few feet away, directly in the path of a particularly sharp moonbeam.  
Standing bathed in that luminous shaft of light, Luna seemed to have realised her true purpose; she was _made_ to be drenched in such milky brilliance. Everything about her – her dirty blonde hair, her pale skin and eyes, her peculiar persona, and her very name – was specifically designed to come into its own when illuminated in such a manner. She was ethereal; she was mesmerising.  
A strangled gasp from Theo had Hermione tearing her eyes away from the spectacular vision before them. He looked devastatingly awestruck. Luna’s radiance seemed to have magnified some of his attributes as well – Hermione had never seen him so _raw_ , so unmasked.

In a flash, he was on his feet, and he charged towards Luna. His face was determined and set, his stride was almost menacingly purposeful... It was quite alarming...  
...Until he cupped Luna’s face in his hands and kissed her.  
She barely hesitated; her arms encircled his waist almost straight away, and she returned his kiss.  
They were somehow contrary and harmonious all at once. Theo was the personification of urgency – he was exigent, fuelled by desperation and anguish. On the other hand, Luna was patience. She was gently coaxing calm and fortitude; tender, but potent enough to be more than a match for Theo. They were like two supplementary sinusoidal waves, weaving together and undulating fluently.  
It was nothing like the clumsy, frenzied teenage snogging on frequent display in shadowy nooks and quite corners of Hogwarts. This was fierce. It was real. It was _adult._

It took a faint moan from Luna to make Hermione realise that she was intruding on an extremely private moment. As quietly as should manage, she crept out of the room, reeling, but comforted by the knowledge that for the time being at least, Theo was going to be just fine.

 

* * *

 

  
At breakfast the next morning, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were pointedly friendly towards her. Congenial. Like they were being so gracious by taking the highroad and letting bygones be bygones.  
She grit her teeth returned their kindness with interest.  
Harry could take off on a perilous horcrux-related escapade with Dumbledore anytime soon; Ginny needed help studying for her O.W.L.s – Hermione couldn’t afford to sulk.

* * *

 

  
Over the next two days, passions and emotions ran higher than ever, quidditch mania peaked, and Hermione got stuck with a permanent migraine.

Thanks to Pansy Parkinson and Moaning Myrtle, the entire school had learnt about Harry and Malfoy’s bathroom face-off.  (Both girl and ghost had run rampant, wailing and howling at an identical pitch, serving as a very efficient – and shrill – public announcement system).  
The Slytherin students were, as expected, aggressively cutting towards Harry. The Gryffindors were extremely put out at well... simply because their captain and star player had been banned from the final. That was it. Strict house rivalry rules dictated that they weren’t allowed to feel any sort of horror towards Harry unintentional act of violence against the scum of Slytherin.

Hermione spent nearly all her time in the library archives, scouring through records from the past ten decades. Her mission was simple: Find the Prince.  
_The Prince_ , she scoffed to herself. The way Harry said it, as though it was both a grand title and an affectionate nickname, was utterly ridiculous. This _Prince_ was probably a repressed sociopath – one that even Machiavelli would’ve distanced himself from.  
She had put aside a pile, eliminating everyone from the year 1920, and pulled pile 1930 closer. First up: Kenneth Abbot... _quite_ a fit one, he was...  
  
After an hour went whizzing by, Theo joined her and caught her in a chokehold that could maybe, possibly be considered a hug, if you were just short of completely mental.  
“My brilliant, beautiful, bestest buddy Hermione! How long I have wondered among these blessed old tomes in search of you!”  
Hermione squirmed until he let her go, and stared him with concerned befuddlement. “You seem... cheerful?”  
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s a glorious summer day! The sun is shining, the birds are singing; I just took the most dee-lightful stroll through the forest.”  
Theo beamed. He _beamed._ Clearly, he hadn’t gone alone for this stroll... and clearly he and his companion hadn’t done a whole lot of actual strolling.  
“Sound’s charming,” Hermione replied with a dee-lighted smile.  
“Draco woke up.”  
“ _Oh?”_ she breathed, _“_ When?”  
“Today morning,” he said as he shoved aside a few stacks of paper so that he could seat himself on the table Hermione was working at (she narrowed her eyes at his careless treatment of the ancient crumbling parchment), “He’s snarky, acerbic, and cranky... prime Draco, really.”  
“So that explains why you’re so...” Hermione flailed her hand about as she re-straightened her carefully stacked piles.  
“So what?”  
“So damn sanguine.”  
Theo laughed. “I told you, darling. It’s a dee-lightful day, and –”  
“Did you bring Malfoy up to speed then? Apprise him of all the latest developments? Let him know about your lovely new girlfriend?”  
“Erm, yeah. I did.”  
“Did that send him right back into a coma?”  
Theo scowled. “He... laughed. A lot.”  
“...And then?”  
“And then he asked me about Potter’s punishment for shredding him. Which is criminally lax, by the way. _Detention. Honestly._ ”  
“That’s it?”  
“Right?! Anyone else would’ve been expelled –”  
“No. I mean... he just laughed? He didn’t... um... pitch a fit?”  
For five entire seconds, Theo regarded her with a small half-smile. “You remember how during that glorious time when we were getting to know each other, I kept surprising you?” he asked.  
“You still keep surprising me,” Hermione answered honestly.  
He reached out to squeeze her arm affectionately, and said, “Well... expect the same from Draco.”  
She protested (“I’m not getting to know _him_!”), and he just grinned (“Aren’t you though?”)

 

* * *

 

  
“NICE ONE, DEAN!” Seamus roared, as the lanky substitute chaser scored another goal for Gryffindor.

They were nearly two hours into the final – Ravenclaw was in the lead by... well, some number, and the consequent clamour was deafening. Sandwiched between Neville and Seamus (and some shapely fifth year girl whom Seamus had somehow cajoled onto his lap), Hermione was terribly distracted.  
  
“Bradley scores!” the nameless Hufflepuff commentator yelled, “Hundred and ten to Ravenclaw, putting them at a twenty point lead!”  
Cue: more hyperactive screaming.

She could have been practicing memory charms. She could have been finalising her Transfiguarion essay. She could have been practicing wandless shield charms. She could have been painting her fucking toenails.

“ANOTHER TEN TO RAVENCLAW!”

Harry would be devastated if Gryffindor lost. ‘Inconsolably dejected’ is how she would’ve described his expression as he had left for detention with Snape earlier that day.

“That was a close shave for Bell! The Ravenclaw beaters are particularly ruthless today...”

_O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,_  
_Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;_  
 _And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,_  
 _He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone._  
 _So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,_  
 _There never was knight like the young Lochinvar._

“...CHANG AND WEASLEY ARE NECK AND NECK BEHIND THE SNITCH...”

Everyone around her had gotten to their feet. Hermione leapt up promptly, just in time to see Ginny shoot forward with an astounding burst of acceleration and close her fingers around the tiny golden ball.  
The world exploded. The stands were a dam that burst, and people gushed onto the pitch in a thick deluge, all the while screaming... _screaming_...  
If Neville hadn’t grabbed her and kept her steady, Hermione would’ve been tragically crushed to death in that deranged stampede.

 

  
Eventually, the party moved into the common room, and since every single eardrum was still on quidditch-match-mode, the shouting and hollering come along too. It all reached its zenith when the team made their grand entrance, holding up a big silver cup.  
All of Hermione’s jaded indifference disintegrated the moment she saw the pure jubilance on Ron’s face. She bounded towards him, and he pulled her into an impossibly tight embrace, lifting her off her feet.  
“We won!” he cried “WE FUCKING WON!”

Pumpkin fizz and meat pies were passed around. In one corner, a group of seventh years broke into an old victory song. And that was when the portrait hole sprung open and Harry was pulled into the throng. His mouth hung open in disbelief as he attempted to make sense of the commotion around him. Helpful as ever, Ron hurtled towards him, trophy in hand and yelling, “We won! We won! Four hundred and fifty to a hundred and forty! WE WON!”  
Hermione looked behind her to exchange a grin with Neville, when the entire room fell into a sudden, nonplussing silence. As ear-splitting as the preceding uproar had been... this was somehow _louder_.  
Somewhere a glass shattered.  
Slowly, Hermione turned her head, and the scene before her left her gasping.

Harry and Ginny’s kiss was nothing like the one she had witnessed between Theo and Luna. This here was a meeting of _oh fucking finally_ and _oh my god is this real_. It was a synthesis of sheer ecstasy and amazement.  
Hermione’s grin nearly split her face in half.

When they broke apart to the sound of giggles and wolf-whistles, Harry’s eyes roamed once across the crowd, before he took Ginny’s hand and they skipped out of the portrait hole.  
They left behind a rather large group of people who didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“Did you know about this?” Ron demanded, once some semblance of normalcy had been regained. Hermione, sidetracked by the sight of Dean’s back disappearing behind the door leading to the boy’s dormitories, didn’t answer. “ _Oi_ ,” Ron tried again, “ _Did you know_?”  
“Huh? Oh. Yes. Of course. You must’ve to be blind not to have seen that this is where they were headed.”  
“You’re joking! When... _How_... he’s my best mate... she’s my sister... _nobody told me_!”  
She rolled her eyes, knowing it was best not to say anything when Ron was being so dramatic.  
“What do I do?”  
“What do you mean _what do you do_? You don’t _do_ anything!”  
“Do I allow this?”  
“... _Allow_?! It’s none of your business!”  
“She’s my sister!”  
“She’s a person – an individual – who makes her own decisions.”  
“Why do mad things keep happening?” he grumbled with a scowl.  
Hermione bumped his shoulder with her own. “I think, Ronald, that that would make an excellent epigraph for our collective memoir.”  
A surprised chuckle later, Ron clinked his glass against hers and said, “To madness, then. The one thing we can count on.”

 

* * *

 

 


	24. Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short 'un... but we all know where it's going....

 

As someone who was self-aware enough to be reasonably well acquainted with her own insecurities, Hermione believed that she was rather adept at picking them out in others, too.  
As a case in point, you could look at her accurate assessment of one Ronald Weasley: inconsistent friend and waning love interest.

The subject was temperamental in the extreme – easily aggravated, highly sensitive, thin-skinned, and known to hold grudges for inordinately long periods of time. As it happened (and armchair psychologists world over rejoiced) the floodgates could well and truly be opened by uttering the words ‘ _so tell me about your mother_ ’.  
Ron, unfortunately, faded into near-irrelevance when put beside his dynamic group of siblings – the charismatic curse-breaker, the forceful dragon-tamer, the able bureaucrat, mad and clever inventor uno y dos, and finally, the beautiful and vivacious little sister who was basically her mother’s dream come true.   
_“They fuck you up, your mum and dad._  
They may not mean to, but they do.”  
Therefore, when Ron managed to win the enduring friendship of Harry Potter, it became his proudest accomplishment. It didn’t matter that the rest of the Weasley clan was quick to adopt him, and vice-versa... Harry was _Ron’s_ friend.  And Ron was Harry’s friend. Ron mattered to Harry, the person he’d miss the most, as the Triwizard Tournament had revealed.

When Ginny invaded that equation, the balance was thrown off completely.

They were sitting out on the grounds, Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny, during a brief and rare shared free period. They’d all ditched their robes, swaddled instead in the perfect warmth of May. Harry was leaning against a tree with Ginny’s head on his lap, idly twirling a lock of her hair. He was also guffawing – with gusto – at Ginny’s quite frankly mean imitation of Ron talking with a mouth full of food.  
This was how they chose to bond: by taking the mickey out of Ron. The fact that it was probably because Ron was their most easily accessible commonality was neither here nor there – Hermione could foresee it becoming a _thing_. Inside jokes, a shared _nudge-nudge-wink-giggle_... Ron was not made to withstand such frequent blows to the ego; certainly not from Harry, his supposed safe haven.

...His frown was deepening by the second...

“Why don’t we go for a walk, Ron?” she asked, her voice unnaturally high, “Give these two some time alone.”  
Harry and Ginny both shot her grateful looks, and Ron nodded in sour agreement. He arose, and surprised Hermione by offering her a hand to help her up. She couldn’t fight the flush that spread across her cheeks as she accepted his overture.

They walked, for a long while, in uncomfortable silence that eventually got too tense for Hermione to deal with.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Dandy,” he grunted. And then – “those two are a bit sickening, aren’t they?”  
Not in the least, actually. Sickening was what she’d use to describe what Ron and Lavender had been. Dear Prudence advised her against voicing that opinion.  
“Ruddy potions homework is doing my head in,” Ron continued.  
Surprisingly, it didn’t take much to tamper down the urge to offer to help him out with it.  
“Let’s go visit Hagrid,” she said instead, “It’s been a while since we've seen him. And it’s been long enough since Aragog’s passing... hopefully he’ll only bring it up half a dozen times.”  
A reluctant, sort-of-smile twitched its way across Ron’s face.  
“Yeah, okay...” And he looked down at her in a curiously timid way, before hoarsely adding, “You, um, look really nice today.”  
Hermione self-consciously fiddled with a pleat of her skirt. “Thank you,” she said softly, not elated, not indifferent, but on the shaky cusp between the two.  
  


* * *

  
  
According to the most recent, highly distressed letter from her parents, three young women, students of the university of Gloucestershire, had been found in a... “state”... very close to her dad’s favourite camping spot in the forest of Dean. Authorities suspected that they were victims of brutal torture, and the trauma had robbed them of all their mental faculties. They were like empty shells; dead on the inside.

The _Daily Prophet_ spoke of dementor attacks occurring all across Britain; having your soul sucked out of you could definitely be considered “brutal torture”... if you wanted to play it down.

 

* * *

 

Hermione was wrestling with her hair while reading Neville’s latest Herbology essay as it levitated in front of her. She’d stopped being surprised by his level of discernment by that point. There was a legitimate Herbology savant living inside that shambling young man...

She sighed in relief once she’d finally managed to pin up every last strand. But then a _very_ disdainful voice spoke from behind her –  
“No need to look so pleased. It still looks like shite.”  
And with that, Lavender marched out of their dormitory with a smug grin on her stupid face. Hermione rolled her eyes, bending to pick up her bag from the foot of her bed. It had been over a month since Ron and Lavender’s breakup, and still, the stream of disparaging remarks didn’t seem remotely close to stemming.  
When she looked up, she saw Parvati lingering awkwardly by her bedpost.  
“Listen, Hermione... I’m sorry about the way she’s been –”  
“You don’t have to apologise for her,” Hermione cut in as courteously as she could manage.  
“I know. But still...” Parvati hedged, running a finger along the carved wood of the post, “She’s being really nasty, but she can’t help it, you know. She really loved Ron.”  
It was an honest to god struggle to not roll her eyes again. “I understand.”  
“Um... also... actually... I was wondering if you could do something for me...”  
And there it was. The whole reason for that phony apology.  
“What is it?” Hermione asked wearily.  
“It’s Padma. Ever since she split up with Anthony, she’s been... well, really depressed, see? And I’ve never seen her like that before. I think there’s something she’s not telling me. Nobody else seems to know anything... believe me, I’ve asked around. But you’re wicked smart; I’m sure you could find out...”  
“No,” said Hermione, shortly.

Padma-related guilt had been relegated to a fairly low position on Hermione’s List Of Things To Angst About in the past couple of months, ever since she’d gotten involved with: A– Project _Desecrate Mum and Dad’s Memories But Don’t Let It Tear You Down (DMDMBDLITYD)_ , B– Project _What The Fuck Is Draco Malfoy Up To_ ( _WTFDMUT_ , also known as, _Harry’s Sanity And Theo’s Happiness Are Hereby Declared Protected Species_ ), C– Project _Holy Shit, We’re Going To Have To Go Spelunking for Soulbits (HSWGTHTGSFS)_ , and most recently, D– Project _Exhume The Unholy Prince (ETUP)_.  
  
“Why the hell not?” Parvati spluttered.  
“Because it’s none of my business.”  
“You’re friends, though! And she’s... she’s my _sister_ , Hermione. I’m worried.”  
“If you’re so worried ask her yourself.”  
Hermione didn’t want _at all_ to be a part of that conversation for even a second longer.  
“I’ve tried!” Parvati keened, “she won’t say anything. It’s killing me!”  
“So that’s what it’s really about, isn’t it?” Hermione snapped, “You’re an incessant busybody who needs to know everything about everyone.”  
Instantly, Parvati’s mouth twisted with offense. “Ugh, you really _are_ a stuck up bitch, Hermione. I’m _so sorry_ for bothering you.”  
She spun around and stalked away, her long black hair swinging like an indignant pendulum.

Breathing hard, Hermione sat heavily down on her bed, wondering why she just couldn’t stop rubbing people the wrong way.

   
  


* * *

 

  
“...so really, western art owes so much to Manet. He’s the one who punched the first hole in the wall that led to modern movement...”

Hermione was babbling. Next to her, Dean nodded absently... sullenly... and she knew he wasn’t really paying attention to a word she was saying.  
She’d watched him furtively over breakfast; he had been visibly fuming as Harry and Ginny engaged in incrementally flirtatious banter. In the climax, Ginny kissed a bit jam off the corner of Harry’s mouth, and Dean threw down his toast and stormed out of the Great Hall. Feeling an irrepressible tug of compassion, Hermione had followed, and then proceeded to try and lure him into conversation over the next half hour.  
Needless to say, it didn’t go well.

“...the next great pathbreaker, would have to be Cezanne, I suppose –”

Hermione gasped as she was unceremoniously spun around, and her subsequent shriek was muted on account of her lips being smothered by another pair of lips.  
Dean’s fingers dug into her upper arms as he hauled her closer, continuing his assault on her mouth all the while. It took Hermione another moment to regain her bearings... and then she shoved him. Hard.  
“What the _fuck_ ,” she spat, wiping a furious hand across her mouth.  
Dean stumbled back, panting, and he just gaped at her wordlessly.  
“I _said_ ,” Hermione shouted, “What. The. _Fuck_?!”  
His expression morphed from staggered to horrified in slow motion – every detail of the transformation was documentable.  
“Shit,” he exhaled.  
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Hermione demanded wrathfully.  
“I... I’m so sorry, Hermione! Oh fuck. Holy _fuck_. I’m so so _so_ sorry!”  
“You’re _sorry_?! Tell me why I shouldn’t hex you ‘til you’re nothing but a pile of ash on the floor!”  
“Oh god, I don’t know what I was thinking!”  
“I’ll tell you what you were thinking,” she supplied spitefully, “ _Revenge_.”  
Dean’s eyes went round with dismay. “You’re right. Shit... you right. I was just... I _am_ a fucking mess. I’m _so sorry_ , I –”  
Hermione held up a hand to halt his useless faltering. “Just stop. I’m going to walk away now, and don’t you dare come after me. In fact, don’t say another word to me until I’ve decided I want to hear from you again.”

She went straight to the library – the only place that she believed would keep her from bursting out with rage-induced, uncontrolled magic. There were more than an adequate number of precious books around to keep her in check.

 

* * *

 

In the fleeting interlude between potions and ancient runes, Theo handed her a towering pile of books.  
“That’s all of them,” he said, “And... it stops now, okay?”  
“How come?” she asked, deftly shrinking the lot and dropping them into her bag.  
“He says he can’t afford any more distractions right now.”

Theo had a chillingly haunted look in his eyes when he said that. Hermione swallowed, and nodded.  
“Okay.” 

 

* * *

  
  
On any other evening when twilight was just fading into night and the moon and stars had claimed their posts, Hermione would’ve been found either in the library or in her common room, deeply absorbed in some scholarly pursuit.  
On this particular evening, however, she was perched on that well-secluded window ledge by the Astronomy tower, doing nothing – absolutely nothing – besides staring outside and sighing weakly. There was only one person she would’ve wanted with her then, and he was most likely ensconced in some sheltered corner of his own, enjoying a few blissful stolen moments with his girlfriend.  
Not that she grudged him that... oh no. Theo deserved every second of peace and happiness that could come by. But it was a fine summer evening; the sky was sapphire blue, the moon was a slim, delicate, gorgeously curving crescent like a powder-white eyelash, and Hermione felt utterly, trenchantly alone.

Alone, desolate, and terrified. It was that time of the year again: they were just a day away from slipping into the final month of the school year, and that was generally when shit hit the fan. Terrible, awful things happened, and Harry came close to dying. Every bloody year, with no exceptions, ever since they’d enrolled in that mad school. Suddenly, the moon looked scythe-like; the grim glint at the edge of the reaper’s lethal blade.  
She wanted a welcoming set of arms to fold into. She wanted to be held against a warm body, to rest her head against a beating heart, to feel a gentle palm stroke her hair...  
God, she felt so alone.  
So desolate. So terrified.  
The menacing calm before a storm was meant to last only for a short while, but Hermione felt like she had spent several lifetimes suspended that ominous stillness.

Her thoughts led her to pull _The Razor’s Edge_ out of her bag. Her cheeky post-it was still there... _Oh_! But her writing had been erased, and in its place, written in vaguely familiar cursive was:  
_Away, you three-inch fool!_

In spite of herself... in spite of _everything_... Hermione leant her head against the cool window pane and laughed out loud.

 

* * *

 

 


	25. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

  
“Ginny and I are meeting for a study session in the library tomorrow. Would you like to join us?”  
“Not in the slightest.”

They’d just finished up another (great in Hermione’s opinion, baffling according to Theo) Ancient Runes lesson, and were spending the fifteen minute break after soaking up some sun in the courtyard.  
“Why not?” Hermione asked.  
“I don’t think I can be around Potter without succumbing to the urge to give him a taste of his own vicious spell.”  
Hermione fished around in her bag to hide the awkward flush on her cheeks. “Harry isn’t going to be there.”  
“That’s immaterial. Ginny’s his girlfriend now – she’s sold her soul to the devil.”  
The _devil.  
_ Hermione huffed, and popped open a box of butterscotch fudge that her parents had sent her. At once, Theo apprehended the whole lot, and then offered _her_ one.  
“You haven’t forgotten that Harry and I are still friends, have you?”  
“ _Pshaw_. As far as I’m concerned, you’re _my_ friend above everything else. I know you’ll never say it out loud, but you love me more.”  
She focused on maintaining the blankest look she could manage... but it didn’t matter. He could read her too well. Sure enough, he looked irritatingly pleased with himself.  
  
“I’m going to be busy tomorrow anyway,” Theo continued, as the last residues of his smirk faded away, “It’s Draco’s birthday.”  
Hermione frowned thoughtfully; “I thought he was opposed to any distractions?”  
“Don’t care,” he replied flippantly, “It’s his birthday, and I’m going to _ensure_ that he gets totally shitfaced.”

Their conversation was briefly interrupted by the sound of desperate yelling... followed by the source of it: Three Ravenclaw boys tore across the yard as Peeves, who had somehow procured one of Fred and George’s Fanged Frisbees, chased after them, cackling maniacally.

  
After an extended period of munching and sniggering, Theo mused, “By the way... Ginny and Potter... I still can’t wrap my head around it.”  
Hermione turned her eyes heavenwards and said, “It’s been like... two weeks, Theo.”  
He waved off her response, swallowed his fourth piece of fudge, and continued, “It’s just so bizarre. So...” he grimaced, “ _incestuous_.”  
“What!?” She choked on her (still first) piece of fudge.  
“It is! It’s like she’s the closest thing Potter could get to the Weasel-King without being called a poof.”  
Hermione’s jaw dropped, and she stared at Theo for a few gobsmacked seconds.  
“That’s warped and completely ridiculous,” she sputtered, “And don’t call Ron that.”  
“I know you secretly agree with me,” he replied pertly, while biting down on piece number five.  
“You’re an idiot.”  
He shot her a grave, meaningful look. She narrowed her eyes.  
“You’re going out with Luna,” she reminded him, “Blond hair, grey eyes... was she the closest thing you could get to Malfoy without being called a poof?”  
It was Theo’s turn to choke then, much to her great satisfaction, and she let that reflect in her tremendously smug smile.  
“That’s... that’s just... Luna’s hair is at least four times darker than Draco’s!” Theo rebutted in outrage.  
“Oh, have an in-depth knowledge of hair colour shades, do you?”  
“Shove off, Hermione.”  
She grinned, “Bet you really regret bringing the word _incestuous_ into play now.”  
Something that looked frighteningly like determination stole over his face. He studied her with hard eyes, like Perry Mason about to deliver a clincher.  
“You know, if I really wanted to date a female Draco, I’d be with you, not Luna.”  
  
For a moment, Hermione thought he had actually petrified her, non-verbally. She felt frozen.  
“ _Excuse me_?” she demanded indignantly.  
Now that he had regained the upper hand, Theo reverted to his leisurely disposition. He picked up yet another bit of fudge and tilted his head serenely.  
“Hmm. The same forcefulness... that holier-than-thou conceit...”  
Her ears felt like they were on fire. “Shut it, you prat –”  
“...that unparalleled wit... the _annoying_ plethora of insecurities... the insane need to prove yourself –”  
“How DARE you?!”  
“That’s exactly what Draco would’ve said.”  
  
Hermione leapt off the banister they were sitting on and stood with her hands on her hips before the insufferable bullshit-spewing, mendacious treat-stealer, glaring in righteous fury.  
“You wanker! _Give me back my fudge._ ”  
“Nope. Has anyone ever told you how resplendent you look when you’re having a strop?”  
“ _Theodore_ , I swear–”  
“I’d know though, wouldn’t I? As a completely objective party who happens to be on more than familiar terms with the both of you–”  
“This is the absolute worst thing you have ever said to me. You take it back. Take it back right now, or else I’ll ghhhhfg!”  
 ...Theo stuffed a large piece of fudge right into her raving mouth.  
“Doesn’t that taste wonderful, Hermione? _Nearly_ as sweet as revenge, is it not?”

 

* * *

 

Ginny groaned loudly when Hermione set three more books on their already over-crowded table.  
“ _Noooo please!_ No more! We’ve been at it for hours and hours!”  
“Do I need to remind you that you have your O.W.L.s in two weeks? Look, I know History of Magic can be a little dry –”  
“A _little_? I think Binns’ plan is to bore us all to madness and then death so we can all be barmy blathering ghosts like him. Come on Herms... let’s call it a day.”  
“Call me that once more and I’ll keep you here all night,” Hermione warned, but at Ginny look of superlative panic she relented and said, “Fine. Half an hour more. I will release you once we’ve gone over the final years of the Giant Wars.”

They walked into the common room forty minutes later, with Ginny looking significantly perkier. Ron beckoned them over from a table by the window, while Harry grinned widely, with eyes for Ginny alone. She plonked herself next to him and curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder.  
“Had a productive evening?” Harry asked, smiling into her hair.  
“Hermione is a slave driver,” Ginny replied around a yawn.  
Hermione stuck her nose up in the air, “You’ll thank me later. They all come around... eventually... _Always_. It says a lot about human nature that people haven’t made _Just Listen to Hermione Without Moaning_ an adage to live by.”  
Harry and Ron laughed. Ginny stuck her tongue out, and then unattached herself from Harry just enough to grab a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that was lying on the floor.  
“I’m now going to busy myself with important things like the news, rather than wasting my time mugging up irrelevant facts about wars that happened centuries ago.”

If Ginny hadn’t been _Ginny_ , and Harry and Ron hadn’t been _Harry and Ron_ , Hermione would’ve loved to take that opportunity to initiate a debate on the merits of historical awareness, and the pivotal role it played in understanding and contextualising the present.  
But, alas... they were Ginny, Harry, and Ron. Not that she really knew anyone else who would’ve been able to give the issue its due consideration.  
(Her sub- _supersub-_ subconscious mind whispered a name, and she squashed it down with the force of a sledge hammer.)  
  
“ _Oi_ ,” Ron yelled suddenly, “Don’t you berks have better things to do than stare?”  
The group of half a dozen odd students that had been standing nearby, staring at Harry and Ginny while giggling and whispering, scattered in different directions; a live demonstration of the process of nuclear fission.  
“Damn nosy tossers,” Ron grumbled, “I can’t believe they’re _still_ in a twit about you two.”   
Harry scratched his nose, looking faintly embarrassed. “Yeah, I’m actually considering keeping the invisibility cloak on for the rest of the year.”  
“You’d think people had better things to gossip about,” Ginny said nonchalantly, “Three dementor attacks in a week, and all Romilda Vane does is ask me if it’s true you’ve got a hippogriff tattooed across your chest.”  
“What did you tell her?” Harry asked, the edges of his mouth twitching.  
“I told her it’s a Hungarian Horntail; much more macho.”  
“Thanks. ...And what did you tell her Ron’s got?”  
A setup if there ever was one. Both the lovebirds were wearing their impish, conspiratorial grins.  
“A Pygmy Puff, but I didn’t say where.”  
  
Hermione tittered nervously, and Ron’s face was like thunder. He pointed a threatening finger at Harry and Ginny, and growled, “Watch it. Just because I’ve given my permission doesn’t mean I can’t withdraw it–”  
“ _Your permission_ ,” Ginny said with a heightened sneer, “Since when did you give me _permission_ to do anything? Anyway, you said yourself you’d rather it was Harry than Michael or Dean.”  
“Yeah, I would,” Ron admitted stingily. “And just as long as you don’t start snogging each other in public–”  
Ginny balled up the newspaper in her hand and lobbed it at her brother’s head. “You filthy hypocrite! What about you and Lavender, thrashing around like a pair of eels all over the place?”  
Harry let out a shocked laugh.

Ron’s scowl didn’t recede for hours.

 

* * *

 

Slughorn set them the uncomplicated and tedious task of preparing a muffling draught, and buried himself in a book and an armchair in the corner of the room. That had become his modus operandi ever since Harry had sidled his shameful memory out of him.  
Hermione left her asphodel to simmer in diluted syrup of hellebore, and set her chin in her hand, bracing herself for half an hour of idle waiting.

Ten minutes later, Theo shuffled into the room.  
“Where have you been for the past two days?” Hermione whispered harshly as he listlessly slid into the stool next to hers.  
“Dying,” he rasped, rubbing his eyes. He seemed to think that that was an adequate answer to her question.  
Hermione arched a brow at him.  
“ _Bleh_ , alright, I was hungover. Terribly hungover. Near-fatally hungover. A hair’s breath away from dying from severe alcohol poisoning.”  
“I see,” Hermione replied loftily, “You celebrated Malfoy’s coming of age with great abandon, hmm?”  
“ _Bleh_.”  
“And I suppose he _still_ hasn’t recovered? That’s why he’s missing right now, and why you’re sitting here with me?”  
“What are we supposed to be brewing?” he asked with evasive faux-curiosity, “ _Oh_... Oh _shite_... that smells repugnant. I’m begging off today’s assignment. Not happening.” Theo took the bluegreen scarf (that could now be called a permanent fixture around his neck) and wrapped it around his mouth and nose.  
“How much did you drink exactly?” Hermione asked trepidatiously.  
“You don’t want to know.”  
“Oh _god, Theo_.”  
“Isn’t that a bit redundant? ‘God’ and ‘Theo’...? I didn’t think you were all that fond of tautology, Hermione,” he garbled through the scarf.  
She stared blankly at him.  
He stared right back, with equally vacant (and bloodshot) eyes.  
“Are you saying that you are the supreme, divine creator of the universe and all its creatures, great and small?” she asked.  
“Well... yeah. You did say it’s called _Theo_ logy.”

Hermione was speechless. She maintained her impassive stare, but something was bubbling in her stomach. It ascended up her chest... her throat...  
She threw back her head and laughed.  
She squeezed her eyes shut, and basically howled with laughter... and people were probably gawking... and she didn’t know _why_ she’d found that so hilarious... but dear... _god..._ she couldn’t stop.

She did eventually, though; stop, that is.  
Wiping her eyes and gasping, she said, “You’re ridiculous.”  
She didn’t dare look around her, knowing that she’d encounter the scandalised stares of a classroom full of people. Her cheeks burned.  
A soft chortle from Theo had her glancing up; the scarf had slipped and left his mouth uncovered. He was beaming at her, eyes dancing with amusement, and all the physical signs of his debilitated state had vanished.

 

* * *

 

Pristine blank parchment laid out in front of her... _check_.  
Inkpot to the right of it... _check_.  
Perfectly sharpened quill in hand... _check_.  
Text by Agrippa... _check.  
_ Book of Hebraic numerological translations... _check.  
_ Ascribed Arithmancy textbook... _check_.  
Gaelic Methodology....... _missing_.  
With a world-weary sigh, Hermione scraped back her chair and disappeared amongst the shelves.

When she returned to her seat, there was a piece of paper sitting on top of her parchment. On it was a very well rendered drawing of a tall, lanky male figure with close-cropped, tightly curled hair, sitting in the pose of Durer’s Melancholia. When she looked up, she saw Dean peeping out timidly from behind a bookshelf.  
“ _Sorry_ ,” he mouthed.  
Hermione blinked, bit her lip, and then nodded once – sharply. He loosened, his shoulders relaxed and he breathed deeply...  
With a small grateful smile, he turned around and walked away.

 

* * *

  
  
Hermione had struck gold.

After weeks of frustrating fruitlessness, she’d finally found a plausible resolution to Project ETUP ( _Exhume The Unholy_ _Prince)_. Clutching an old newspaper clipping in her hand, Hermione stepped in through the Gryffindor portrait hole and made her way towards the corner where Harry and Ron were straining themselves trying to complete their Herbology homework.

Settling on the chair between them, she spoke in her best _I-mean-business_ voice, “I want to talk to you, Harry.”  
Harry made a small moue at her tone. “What about?”  
“The so-called Half-Blood Prince.”  
“Oh, not again,” he cried out in annoyance, “Will you please drop it?”  
She squared her shoulders. “I’m not dropping it until you’ve heard me out. Now, I’ve been trying to find out a bit about who might make a hobby of inventing dark spells–”  
“He didn’t make a hobby of it–” Harry cut her off hotly.  
“He, he–” she countered, her own temperature rising, “Who says it’s a he?”  
“We’ve been through this! Prince, Hermione, _Prince_!”  
“Right!” said ground out. With a bit of a flourish, she slammed the newspaper clipping down on the table before them. “Look at that,” she gestured wildly towards it with her hand, “Look at the picture!”

Lifting it up to eye-level, Harry gazed coolly at the picture of Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team. Ron leaned over to have a look as well, and immediately his nose scrunched up in distaste; Hermione presumed he was reacting to Eileen’s appearance, which, admittedly, defied all criteria of conventional beauty.  
“So?” Harry’s eyebrows were rising higher and higher as he read the article accompanying the photograph.  
“Her name was Eileen Prince,” she replied slowly, “ _Prince_ , Harry.”  
He looked up and at her for a long moment, processing what she’d just said. And then... then he burst out laughing.  
“No way.”  
“ _What_?”  
“You think she was the Half-Blood...? Oh, come on.” Harry, still chortling, placed the paper back down on the table dismissively.  
“Well, why not? Harry, there aren’t any real princes in the Wizarding world! It’s either a nickname, a made-up title somebody’s given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn’t it?” Harry snorted, and she gnashed her teeth, “No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was Prince, and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a ‘half-blood Prince’!”  
“Yeah, _very_ ingenious, Hermione...”  
Surely, _surely_ , there was steam coming out of her ears. “But it would! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!”  
“Listen, Hermione, I can tell it’s not a girl. I can just tell.”

Oh. _Oh_. So she was up against some transcendental bond of brotherhood here. Harry’s lad-radar had sounded off – he could _just tell_.  
“The truth is that you don’t think a girl would have been clever enough.”  
“How can I have hung round with you for five years and not think girls are clever?” he said witheringly, “It’s the way he writes, I just know the Prince was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn’t got anything to do with it. Where did you get this anyway?”  
“The library,” she replied, ignoring the way he rolled his eyes, “There’s a whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, I’m going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.”  
“Enjoy yourself,” Harry grouched.    
“I will,” she snapped, “And the first place I’ll look is records of old Potions awards!”  
She left quickly, not allowing him the opportunity to snark at her any further.

On reaching the library, she put together a teetering pile of old records and newspapers –– and then stopped dead (almost spilling paper _everywhere_ ) when she got to her usual table.  
“Sweet Dagda!” Seamus exclaimed the moment he saw her, “Hermione... you’re here! Fantastic,” he promptly stood up and began packing his things, “You can take over – I’m officially off duty now. Fucking finally. I’m leaving. I’m off. Slán.”

Hermione turned to the two remainders.  
“Theo, Luna, hi. Er... what’s going on?”  
“Well, Finnigan kindly agreed to sit here so that it wouldn’t be just the two of us. No need to set the rumour mills going, you know,” Theo replied with an easy smile.  
“Ah.” Hermione took the seat Seamus has just vacated before tentatively asking, “You asked _Seamus_ to be your cover? Of all people...?”  
Theo shrugged, “He’s a laugh. I like him.”  
“ _Seamus. You_ like _Seamus_.”  
“Yeah. You know, Hermione... I don’t know why you force yourself to hang around with Potter and Weasley when you have him around.”  
Before she could retort, Luna chimed in, “Harry’s perfectly lovely.”  
Aghast, Theo gaped at her in betrayal so she clarified, “Yes, he does unpleasant things sometimes, but I don’t think that’s _him_ , really. I think there’s something foreign and insidious in his head that’s messing him up... I see it in his expression sometimes,” she lowered her head gravely, “Probably an army of malicious wrackspurts.”  
“Love,” Theo said disdainfully, “You know I think you’re the most intuitive and perceptive witch in the world, but if you start defending Potter, I’m going to get terribly mardy.”  
Luna smiled seraphically; “That’s alright. I know how to cheer you up.”  
A grin, a leer, and a purred, “That you do...” from Theo had Hermione snapping her fingers twice in warning.  
“Reign in it, you two. I may have agreed to be your scapegoat, but I did _not_ agree to a peepshow.”  
“Oh, shut up,” said Theo.  
“I suppose we won’t be inviting you to celebrate Beltane with us next year,” said Luna.  
A statement of finality if ever there was one.  
They each fell into their own work (though Hermione suspected that Theo and Luna were holding hands under the table) and sat in uninterrupted silence for a long while.

Hermione’s mouth was thinned in annoyance. Eileen Prince hadn’t been awarded a single prize of academic excellence. It appeared that her only claim to fame was being a competent gobstones player.  
She poured over _Prophet_ after _Prophet_ , and found nothing remotely useful. Desperate, she even skimmed through papers from years later. Nothing in the minor accomplishments pages. No mention in the Page Three high society drivel. In the wedding announcements pages...  
Oh fuck.

_The engagement is announced between Eileen, daughter of Reginald and Eimear Prince of Ballycastle, and Tobias, son of Abner and Rachel Snape of Cokeworth, England.  
_

She scrambled through the remaining _Prophets_ , hunting, hunting...

_On 9 th January, 1960, to Eileen (nee Prince) and Tobias Snape, a son, Severus Snape. _

“Oh fuck,” Hermione groaned out loud.  
Somewhere in the background, a voice that sounded like Theo’s asked, “What is it?”  
Hermione ignored the voice.  
Severus Snape was the Half-Blood Prince. It made sense – it made complete sense. He had known how to counter the Sectumsempra curse... immediately asked to see Harry’s potion’s book... And, well, there was no denying that he was exceedingly clever... a dab hand at potions...  
She stood up, sending the prophets back in place with a careless wave of her hand.  
“I’m sorry,” she rushed, “I have to go.”  
“Oi. Hey... _Hey_ ,” Theo caught hold of her wrist, “What’s going on?”  
“ _Nothing_ ,” Hermione stated firmly, “I just need to speak to Harry. Don’t worry, I promise it’s nothing serious...”  
“You look spooked,” Luna added, “Something has rattled you. But she doesn’t want to tell us, Theo. You should let her go.”  
He did not relent. “Hermione–” he frowned up at her, then at Luna, and then back at her, “Ugh, fine. Go. But you _will_ tell me what this is about yeah? Later?”  
He released her wrist, and she nodded, and without delay tore out of the library. Her footfalls thumped loudly against the stone floor; if there was _any_ piece of information that could convince Harry to give up the book... this was it.

When she finally stumbled into the common room, Ron was sitting alone and Harry was nowhere in sight. She raced over to him and panted, “Where’s Harry?”  
He looked at her with anxious eyes. “Dumbledore sent for him. He’s been gone a while now...”  
All thoughts of Snapes and Princes evaporated right out of Hermione’s mind. She gasped. “You... you don’t think he’s found...”  
“Donno,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together uneasily.

Yet again, Hermione and Ron were left to stew in worry and disquiet, wondering what had become of their friend.

Countless minutes later, Harry could be seen running across the room. Hermione shot up to her feet; “What does he want? Harry, are you okay?” she demanded fretfully.  
“I’m fine,” Harry called over his shoulder, as he dashed up the stairs and disappeared into his dormitory. She sat back down robotically and exchanged a startled look with Ron...  
...and then Harry was back, carrying a variety of indistinguishable things in his hands.

“I’ve got to be quick,” he wheezed, dropping down onto his haunches in front of them, “Dumbledore thinks I’m getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen... he’s found a horcrux –” Hermione and Ron both gasped, but Harry paid no heed to their amazement, “I’m going with him to get it–”  
“Where–” Ron began.  
“It’s hidden in a cave on some distant coast... the cave in which Riddle once terrorised two children from his orphanage –”  
“But what about –”  
“I don’t have time to get into the fucking details! I ran into Trelawney on the way... she was trying to get into the Room of Requirement, but was thrown out by somebody already in there. Somebody who was _whooping_ triumphantly. So you see what this means? Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever he’s up to.”  
Hermione opened her mouth, but Harry foresaw her interjection. “No, listen to me!” he growled furiously, “I know it was Malfoy celebrating. Here–” He thrust something into Hermione’s hands... an old, yellowed bit of parchment: the Marauder’s Map, she realised.  
“You’ve got to watch him and you’ve got to watch that bastard Snape too,” Harry continued frantically, “Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A.; Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it – but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?”  
“Harry–” she tried again, her voice shook with tension.  
“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry tersely. “Take this as well–” He dropped a pair of socks onto Ron’s lap.  
Ron stared down at them. “Thanks. Er – why do I need socks?”  
“You need what’s wrapped in them... it’s the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too. Say good-bye to her for me. I’d better go, Dumbledore’s waiting–”  
Ron extracted the tiny bottle, and Hermione jumped to the edge of her seat, “No!” she half-yelled, “We don’t want it. You take it. Who knows what you’re going to be facing?”  
“I’ll be fine; I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry with a shake of his head, “I want to know you lot are okay… Don’t look at me like that, Hermione, I’ll see you later…”

And suddenly, he was a blur, dodging the students milling about the common room, before finally vanishing from sight.

“Bloody fucking _hell_ ,” Ron breathed.

* * *

 

 


	26. Twenty-Six

 

One small sigh for calm, one giant heave for equanimity.  
“Okay,” Hermione said to herself bracingly. Then she began rummaging around in her bag.

“What are you looking for?” Ron asked.  
“My DA Galleon. I’m quite sure it’s in here somewhere...”  
Ron grunted and shook his head, “What good will that do, really? I hardly think anyone will still be carrying theirs around with them. I’m going up to the dorm to wake Neville, Dean, and Seamus. That’s the best we can manage right now.”  
She hummed perfunctorily as he got up and left, still caught up in her search. Finally, after much fumbling and scrambling, her fingers closed around the elusive coin. She tapped it gently, altering the engraving on the facet to read, ‘ _7 th floor corridor ASAP_’.

A sigh had barely escaped her lips when the portrait hole swung open and Ginny traipsed in tiredly.  
“Blazing buggering fire crabs,” she groaned, falling onto the sofa next to Hermione, “I’m _exhausted_. My brain has melted. It’s like a puddle of thickened slime in my skull. I can’t wait for these O.W.L.s to be... what’s happened to you?”  
Hermione met her concerned frown with consternation.  
“Um... Ginny,” she began, worrying her lower lip with her teeth, “Harry’s... gone. With Dumbledore.”  
Ginny’s spine straightened as she was - almost involuntarily - lurched out of her slouch. “What do you mean _gone_?!”  
“He... they... Well, they’ve gone to do something. I don’t really know what...”  
“You don’t really know. Right,” Ginny said with scathing disbelief, “Is it dangerous? Oh, wait. Don’t bother. _Of course_ it’s bloody dangerous.” With all the colour drained from her face, she suddenly stood up. “You just let him go off like that?”  
“He’s with Dumbledore, Ginny–”  
“And he couldn’t even bother to tell me? Just a ‘ _hullo little girlfriend, I’m off to be a valiant hero again, tara’_ would’ve been nice. Oh Merlin. WHY does he keep pulling these stunts?”  
“He didn’t have time to find you; Dumbledore was waiting–”  
“He told _you,_ though. Had time enough for that.”  
“I just happened to be here when he was leaving, and he–”  
“Of course you were. You always _happen_ to be there for him, don’t you?”  
“Ginny...” Hermione whispered imploringly.  
And just like that, the agitated, ashen-faced girl before her deflated. “I know,” she said in a pained voice, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just... scared, Hermione.”  
Hermione rose, stood in front of her, and put a comforting hand on her arm. “So am I.”

That was when Ron came back down from his dormitory, followed by Neville, Dean, and Seamus, each wearing bewildered looks of varying intensities.  
Tousle-haired and bleary-eyed Seamus was the first to speak: “Alright, Mister Weasley sir. We’re downstairs now. Will you please tell us why the sodding fuck you dragged us out of bed?”  
“Stop being so bloody shirty, Seamus,” Ron snapped (Hermione, in her twitchy state, struggled to contain a giggle and suppress the urge to challenge Ron to say _Shirty Seamus_ five times, rapidly), “This is important. Dumbledore’s not in the castle tonight, and there’s a very good chance that something bad is going to happen–”  
“What d’you mean _something bad_ ,” Dean asked anxiously.  
Hermione cleared her throat, “We have reason to believe that Draco Malfoy has... something planned. He’s been working on it in the room of requirement all year. Snape’s involved too, in some capacity. And since Dumbledore’s away, we think that they’re going to... act... tonight. We need to keep an eye on them...”

There was a brief interlude in which the three newcomers digested her words.  
“Malfoy and Snape have... something... planned,” Dean clarified.  
Hermione and Ron both nodded.  
“What exactly is _something_?”  
“Donno,” said Ron with a shrug.  
“But you’re sure it’s something.”  
“Yeah.”  
Neville, whose face was a mask of apprehension asked, “Where’s Harry?”  
“He’s gone with Dumbledore,” said Hermione.  
“And where have they gone?” Seamus demanded.  
With another flippant shrug, Ron replied “Donno,” once again.  
“Basically, you know sweet fuck all,” Seamus grumbled, “I’m going back to bed.”  
“Don’t be a tool, Seamus,” Dean entreated at the same time as Ron said, “Settle your arse _down_!”  
"Well, I’m _sorry_ ,” Seamus barked, “But this whole thing is mad as a box of frogs. We’re in Hogwarts for fuck’s sake – Dumbledore or no Dumbledore, it’s as safe as safe can be...”  
“I’d have said the same thing about the Ministry before last year,” Neville countered, before looking over at Hermione, “How’re we doing this then?”  
She gave him a grateful nod, unfurled the Marauder’s map, and muttered the activation phrase.  Scrutinising carefully, she searched the map from corner to corner.  
“Malfoy isn’t showing up on this,” she announced, “So he’s obviously still in the Room of Requirement. Snape... is in his office. We’ll split up and stand guard at both those locations...”  
Dean and Seamus peered over her each of her shoulders.  
“Cool map,” Dean said in awe, “Where’d you get it?”  
“It belonged to Harry’s dad...” she replied absently.  
“Anyone else from the DA show up?” Ron asked.  
“Um... Luna.”  
Ron whickered, “Brilliant. _Just_ the person you want around in a time of crisis.”  
“Shut up, Ron,” Ginny snapped, “So how are we splitting up, Hermione? ...Er, Hermione?”

Hermione, however, was already halfway across the room. Without turning, and with her eyes still glued to the map, she said, “Theo is outside the portrait hole for some reason. I’ll be back in second.”

He was on her the moment she stepped out.  
“Thank Merlin,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been standing out here for twenty minutes trying to get this puffed up pink Fwooper to let me in.”  
An offended wail tore out of the fat lady’s mouth. “ _Well I never_...”

Theo took hold of Hermione’s elbow and dragged her a few feet away.  
“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked nervously.  
His hair was all over the place, looking like he had run his hands through it a billion times.  
“Hermione, listen,” he began fervently, looking down at her with turbulent eyes, “Something’s going to happen tonight.”  
She pursed her lips and frowned, “Why would you say that?”  
“Because Draco told me _expressly_ that under no circumstances am I to leave the common room tonight, and point-blank refused to give a reason for it. Then he left, and I have no idea where he’s gone. He looked... he looked _awful_. Like he was going to be sick. I didn’t get–”

He stopped talking abruptly, staring at something behind Hermione. She spun around and saw her housemates spilling out of the common room.  
“’the fuck are you doing here, Nott?” Ron demanded.  
“I don’t have to justify my whereabouts to you, Weasley.”  
“Look here you plonker–”  
“Oh, save the pissing contest for another time you two,” Hermione rebuked, “Theo’s just confirmed our suspicions about Malfoy. Now let’s quickly get to the seventh floor before Luna gets tired of waiting...”  
“Wait, what? _Luna_?” Theo yelled, “Why is she loitering around? Fuck.”

He charged away like a boy possessed. The rest of them watched his receding back, gobsmacked, for a few seconds... and then they followed, tearing down the corridor, their cloaks billowing out behind them like Lethifolds.

 

* * *

  
  
It took ten long minutes for them to settle on how exactly they were going to divide themselves into two groups.

“Luna, Hermione, and I will wait here for Draco,” Theo declared authoritatively.  
“You’ll be distracted if we’re with you, Theo,” Luna rejoined.  
Hermione spoke before he could open his mouth to argue, “She’s right. You wait here; you’re the only one who might be able to talk Malfoy out of his designs. Ginny, Neville, Dean... You can disillusion yourselves and stand at a distance. That leaves Ron, Seamus, Luna, and I to wait outside Snape’s office.”  
“No, that’s –”  
“Don’t be _difficult_ , Theo. Luna and I will be fine.”  
He snapped his mouth shut and loured at her.  
“Er – Hermione...” Ron ventured, “D’you think I can stay here with Ginny? Mum will _kill me_ if I let something happen to her–”  
“Ha! Fuck off, Ron,” Ginny scoffed, “I’m better with a wand than you are, any day of–”  
“That’s not the point, you daft cow–”  
“Don’t call me a da–”  
“ALRIGHT,” Hermione bellowed, “Theo, Ron, Ginny, and Dean will wait outside the Room of Requirement; Luna,  Seamus, Neville, and I will–”  
“Hey, at least let me have Finnigan!” Theo begged.  
“Aw, Nott! Knew you had a glad eye for me, you rawny dah’lin...”  
“Hardy har, knobhead–”

And so it was decided; Ron, Ginny, Seamus, and Theo went to stand outside the room of requirement, and Hermione, Luna, Neville, and Dean headed down to the dungeons to station themselves outside Snape’s office.

 

That had been forty minutes ago.  
Three jittery Gryffindors, and one unnervingly composed Ravenclaw sat in a row against the wall by Snape’s door. Hermione had cast a quick _Muffliato_ around them, taking buckets of pleasure in using Prince Severus’ own spell against him.

“I think I’m going to have to agree with Seamus now,” Dean said, “This is stupid.”  
He’d tilted his head back to rest against the wall and had his eyes closed. Hermione fiddled with a loose thread on her cloak, unable to come up with something to contradict that proclamation.  
“Hermione,” Neville broached tentatively, “You’re absolutely sure about all this, yeah?”  
“Yes. That is to say... Harry’s been keeping a close eye on Snape and Malfoy all year, and–”  
“No. I mean... are you _really_ sure? Harry was certain that Sirius Black was being held prisoner at the ministry, too... And well, you know how that turned out.”  
Hermione bit her lip. “Neville, you know that that whole fiasco at the ministry was a trap. This... this is different...”  
She tugged and tugged at the loose thread, but it refused to break.  
...She really wished she hadn’t given the Marauder’s map to the other group.

“Is it really different?” Dean asked, opening one eye to look at her, “What, besides Harry’s conviction, has brought us here? Do you _always_ just do what he says?”  
Hermione bristled, half wanting to tell him that he was welcome to fuck off.  
Instead she said, “Absolutely. Ours not to make reply, Ours not to reason why, Ours but to do and die.”  
“Oh _brother_ ,” Dean huffed, and settled back into his reposeful pose.  
Hermione glared daggers at his profile.

“Look,” she tried again after a spell, speaking more to Neville than anyone else, “I am absolutely certain that Malfoy has something sinister up his sleeve-”  
“Theo says that he isn’t really a bad person,” Luna interjected.  
Dean and Neville expelled identical noises of disbelief. Hermione wound the thread around the tip of her finger till it was bloodless and chalk-white.  
“Theo’s a bit biased,” she said.  
“Maybe,” Luna allowed, “But you trust his judgement, don’t you?”  
Hermione didn’t answer - she simply stared down at her anaemic fingertip.  
“...don’t you?”  
“Yes,” she confessed, grudgingly.

  
That admission marked the end of their surveillance-time chitchat. They just sat there quietly (in a row against the wall by Snape’s door); Hermione played with her thread, Neville blinked at a crack on the opposite wall, Dean kept his eyes closed, and Luna tapped her wand repeatedly against her shoe, changing its colour with each strike: blue, green, purple, maroon...  
...Hermione found herself partially mesmerised by the flickering hues, thinking about bright neon signs at Piccadilly...

“What’s that?” Neville exclaimed urgently, “Someone... someone’s coming!”  
They were all on their feet in a flash, squinting their eyes to see through the shadow-heavy corridor; a tiny figure was vaguely discernible in the distance. They stood in tense anticipation, each holding tightly onto their respective wands, poised to attack if necessary...  
As the figure came closer, Hermione realised that it was Flitwick. He ran wildly past them, not even sparing a glance in their direction, and burst into Snape’s office, leaving the door open behind him.  
Neville let out a shaky sigh, “What the he–”  
“Shhh!” Hermione hissed sharply. She pressed herself against the door jamb, straining to hear what was going on inside.  
“...Death Eaters... the castle!” she picked up fragments in Flitwick’s high voice; he sounded desperate and panic-stricken, “Severus... with me... Astronomy.... outnumbered...”

Then there was a heavy _thump_ , and four seconds later, Snape was standing before them. His eyes travelled from Hermione to Luna to Dean to Neville, his curled lip becoming more and more prominent along the way. Hermione, expecting interrogations and detentions, set her jaw defiantly.  
“Professor Flitwick has collapsed in my office – he appears to have over-exerted himself. Go in and look after him... and if you meddlesome children want what’s best for you, you’ll stay inside for the rest of the night.”  
And with a thoroughly _un_ charming sneer in lieu of a ‘by your leave’, he marched down the corridor. The meddlesome children watched him till he melted into the shadows, and then looked at each other with wide eyes... _on your mark, get set, go!_... They hurtled into the office.

“Oh!” Luna gasped miserably, “Poor Professor Flitwick!”  
He was unconscious and spreadeagled on the floor. Hermione knelt beside him, and pressed her wand to his forehead.  
“ _Rennervate,_ ” she whispered. Flitwick stirred feebly, and his previously shallow breathing evened out, but he did not wake up. She removed her cloak, bundled it up, and placed it under his head like a pillow. Luna and Neville draped theirs over him like blankets.  
“Is he going to be alright?” Neville asked Hermione uneasily.   
“I think so. He should wake up once his nerves recover...”  
“At least he’s warm now,” said Luna. She took one of her strange Gurdyroots out of her satchel, and placed it next to his head. “There. That’s perfect. Now the Gulping Plimpies will stay away too.”

“Pardon me,” Dean cut in loudly, “But if you’re all done playing Florence Nightingale, maybe we could talk about the fucking _Death Eaters_ that are supposed to be in the castle?”  
“Right!” Hermione squeaked, “Damn it, I _really_ wish I had that map with me...” She stepped away from Flitwick’s... _floor_ side, “We should go back up to the seventh floor and reconvene with the others. Come on.”  
“Death Easters,” Dean yelped in distress as he swooped in front of her to block her path, “ _Death. Eaters_. In the castle. What if we run into a couple of FUCKING DEATH EATERS?”  
Hermione raised her eyebrows, “You have your wand don’t you?”  
He looked towards the other members of their quartet pleadingly. Neville shrugged.  
“Isn’t this why you joined Dumbledore’s Army to begin with?” asked Luna.  
Defeated, Dean nodded stiffly.  
  
_Screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we'll not fail.  
_

 

* * *

  
  
  
They crept silently through passageways and up staircases, clinging to the walls and the darkness that pooled under them.  
They needn’t have bothered.  
The castle appeared to be completely deserted; No patrolling sentries, no murderous psychopaths, no irascible caretakers, nor their mangy cantankerous cats. Even the paintings lining the halls were eerily vacant.  
“I don’t understand,” Hermione murmured, “There were supposed to be Death Eaters... extra security–”

She stopped speaking and all four of them froze, listening in terror to the escalating sound of sprinting feet coming from somewhere ahead of them. Immediately, they got into their defensive stance: alert, prepared, with wands held aloft.  
“...Luna...!...Hermione...!...Dean...!”

Almost as if they’d materialised out of thin air, Theo and Ginny were suddenly just _there_. Ron and Seamus came after, crashing into the other two and nearly knocking them onto the ground.  
“Oh!” Ron huffed, “Are you all okay?”  
“We’re fine” Hermione assured him hastily, “But what on earth is going on?”  
“Death Eaters have infiltrated the castle,” Ginny averred grimly.  
“But...” Hermione stuttered, “How... _how_...?”  
“It was Draco’s doing,” Theo said in a gravelly, haunted voice, “I don’t know how, but–” he seemed to choke on his words, and Luna took his hand in hers.  
“Shit. _Fuck_!” Dean swore.  
“That’s what I said too,” Seamus muttered frivolously.  
“What happened with Malfoy, though?” Hermione asked keenly, “Did he –”  
With a muted screech of impatience, Ginny exclaimed, “We don’t have time to faff about and explain! We need to go help out!”  
“Oh. Oh yes,” Hermione mumbled penitently, “Yes...”  
  
“Um... look here...”

“...Check the map, Ron – find out where everybody is...”  
“Yeah. There’s also this,” he pulled the tiny bottle of Felix Felicis out of his pocket, “One little sip each, alright?”  
  
“...Um, guys...”

“What is that?” Seamus asked, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.  
“Liquid luck,” Hermione and Theo said simultaneously. They looked at each other, and in the deep groove between his furrowed brows, Hermione perceived the full brunt of his despondency.  
  
“...Oi, look here, _guys_...”

“Theo, listen,” she whispered to him as the Felix Felicis was being circulated, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to fight.”  
“Are you _mad_?” he asked, looking aghast, “Of course I bloody well will fight.”  
Taking the tiny bottle from her hand, he took a bold swig. Luna watched him with immense pride; a sentiment that Hermione shared whole-heartedly...

“...WILL YOU FUCKING COME OVER HERE?” 

  
They all spun around in alarm to stare at Neville. He stood a little distance away, staring outside a window while wearing the most blood-curdling look of horror.  
“What is it?” Luna asked cautiously.  
“Look,” he said hoarsely, pointing outside.  
Hermione's internal sparks of Felicis-induced euphoria and confidence fizzled into nothingness as they moved towards Neville in an anxious huddle, gathered around the window, and looked out into the night.  
And there it was, looming repulsively over the astronomy tower – toxic green and glittering – the Dark Mark.

Of course, they instantly knew what that meant. Someone had been killed.

Ginny clapped her hands to her mouth.  
Luna and Dean gasped.  
Ron let out a strangled groan.  
“Oh fuck,” Seamus whispered.  
Theo’s mouth thinned into one straight line.

 _This is the way the world ends_ _  
_This is the way the world ends__  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but..._

Hermione whimpered. 

* * *

 


	27. Twenty-Seven

 

Streaks of light, bursts of colour, sparks flashing and whizzing hither and thither: a battle scene like a laser lighting display.

Hermione wielded her wand like a conductor’s baton, throwing hexes towards the gaunt, vulture-like Death Eater she was locked in a duel with. She wasn’t fully aware of the spells she was using, and yet they continued to stream out of her wand fiercely and judiciously – it was pure adrenaline-driven automatism. Some primal survival instinct was guiding her, momentarily suspending fear and hesitation.  
“STUPIFY!” she roared, and the resulting spell was so forceful, her rival flew back at least ten feet.

She spun around, half-crouched and resolute... Neville was being brutally beaten down by a dumpy female Death Eater, injured as he was after attempting to charge through the mysterious, invisible barrier closing off access to the Astronomy Tower. She surged forward to help him and –

“HERMIONE! LOOK OUT!”

She dived just in time to avoid a jet of green light – the killing curse no doubt – and crashed onto the floor just adjacent to Bill Weasley’s mangled body. A startled sob tore out of her throat, raw and guttural. She kicked her legs out as she sprung back onto her feet, accidentally but unremorsefully kicking a dead Death Eater in his dead dead _dead_ face.

“Okay, Hermione?” Tonks hollered, even as she valiantly continued to restrain an enormous blond-haired Death Eater who was on a hyper rampage, shooting _Avadas_ willy-nilly.  
“Fine!” she called back, and aimed a body-binding curse towards the brute.... which was deflected by one of his peers.

“Now that wasn’t very nice of you, was it, little runt? A punishment is in order... _Crucio!_ ”  
Hermione jumped to the side to dodge the curse, and immediately retaliated by shooting a torrent of arrows out of her wand.  
The Death Eater deflected them with a sickening grin. “Tsk. Child’s play. You’re asking for trouble, little runt. _Cruc_ –”  
Thick flames from a scorching spell grazed by him, and he yelped and staggered back.  
Suddenly, Theo was by Hermione’s side. Smoke trailed out of his wand as he glared mutinously at the Death Eater.  
“What’s this?! Nott Jr.?!” the Death Eater thundered, appalled, “You... you treacherous... slimy... _fuck_. If only your father could see you now. _”_ Quick as a viper, he non-verbally disarmed Theo, “ _Avada –_ ”  
“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” Hermione shouted, and _finally_ the wretched sod was defeated. He fell back, stiff as a board and wide-eyed.

“Are you alright?” she asked Theo urgently.  
“Yeah,” he breathed, massaging his wrist... and then he abruptly pulled her down with him into a squat as yet another stray _Adava_ sailed over their heads.  
They scattered in opposite directions, Theo scrambling to retrieve his wand, and Hermione resuming her mission to help Neville.

He was sprawled on the floor, propped up by no more than an elbow, intrepidly but tiredly trying to stun the woman who was bearing down on him...  
Hermione circled around them so she could get a clear shot... “ _Everte Statum_!”... and the Death Eater made a pitchy squawk as she was thrown high into the air. Neville nodded gratefully, and collapsed onto his back panting.

Hermione skittered to her left, catching sight of a green streak of light just in time to narrowly avoid being hit.

“EVERYBODY, SHIELDS UP!”  
It was Lupin’s voice that tore through the chaos and calamity, all across the dark and narrow combat zone. Hermione leapt to Neville’s side, and put up a powerful shield charm over both of them...

And that’s when half the ceiling caved in – a shattering downpour of rock and rubble – and everything disappeared behind a thick cloud of dust.

 

* * *

 

It was jarring – unnervingly so – the absolute quiet that fell upon that weakly lit corridor as it filled with brume and puffs of fine grey powder.  
Hermione slowly lowered her wand, and the shimmering blue dome encompassing her and Neville fizzled out. A low trembling breath left her lungs, and she heard it like it had fallen directly onto her ears through a loudspeaker. Every subsequent breath was similarly amplified.  
She peered around through the haze in a state of total stupefaction... and watched it gradually clear. Little by little, silhouettes of other people stirring and unfurling became sketchily visible.

After coming to her feet, she offered a hand to Neville, helping him up. He kept his hand wrapped around hers, reflexively, and they waited in suspense for the dust to settle.

The dust always settled.

“ _Lacarnum Inflamarae_!” – It was a feral, throaty intonation, following which, a giant blazing orb of fire tore down the length of the corridor like a comet, forcing everyone to leap towards the walls.

As if she hadn’t ever been interrupted, vicious Lady Bellona staked her claim once more: the battle recommenced.  


Having lost Neville during the fireball-ruckus, Hermione found herself facing _two_ Death Eaters all on her own.  
“Well, well,” said one (a ragged, rangy looking fellow), “It’s Potter’s mudblood sidekick innit, Amycus?”  
“It is,” the other (stout, lumpy) one wheezed with a smirk, “Little mud-rat thinks she has the right to play around with magic. How about we cut her to size... _Diffindo_!”  
Hermione deftly flicked her wand, causing his curse to go flying right back to him.  
“OH! _Oh_ ,” he panted after ducking to dodge the rebound, “You damn well think you’re clever, don’t you, you filthy little...”  
“ _Confringo_!” Hermione shouted, slicing her wand to include both Death Eaters in the resulting explosion.  
They got their shields up in time.  
“THAT’S IT,” the rangy Death Eater growled, “ _Crucio_! _”_  
She scarcely managed to avoid being hit. “IMPEDIMENTA!” she cried, brandishing her wand like a blade.  
Except, she wasn’t the only one to cast the spell. From either side of her, Seamus and Ginny had thrown the exact same jinx at the exact same time. Seamus and hers hit the first Death Eater squarely in the solar plexus, and he was thrown back into a heap on the floor. The second, Amycus, chased after Ginny with a furious roar.

Before Hermione could so much as _think_ about following, she was distracted by the sight of Snape and Malfoy, as they came charging out of the door leading to the Astronomy tower.  
With his wand in one hand and the scruff of Malfoy’s neck in the other, Snape adroitly navigated through the raging skirmish. He swept past Lupin, who was holding up a shield in front of Tonks... past Professor McGonagall who was energetically exchanging hexes with a Death Eater... past Dean, who cast a powerful _Reducto_ on a pile of rubble, drawing out the Death Eater who’d hidden behind it... past _her_... and just as he reached the far end of the corridor, he paused.  
“It’s over,” he called, “Time to go.”  
The moment he and Malfoy disappeared around the bend, the Death Eaters began detaching themselves from their various duels, and followed.

Hermione blinked. Once.  
Amycus was still adamantly trying to annihilate Ginny... The big, blond Death Eater was still in the business of arbitrarily and insanely shooting spells...

He set off a series of golden yellow jets of light, and they went and crashed against walls, shattered windows... demolished a suit of armour just a few meters away from where Ron was locked in combat with a brick-like Death Eater...  
Hermione leapt back into the fray, and aimed hex after hex at the blond menace, hitting him once in the knee, once on the shoulder. How this chap was still standing was beyond her. But her concerted attack seemed to strengthen Tonks’ resolve. She redoubled her efforts, and between the two of them, (“Three... Two... _Now, Hermione_!”) they finally took the savage down.  
He fell on all fours, howling in pain and –

  
“Harry, where did you come from?”  
At Ginny’s shocked cry, Hermione spun around – bizarrely, _gracefully_ , a fouetté, a pirouette – just in time to see him sprint by her.  
“Harry,” she whispered into the gust of wind he left behind in his wake.  
From somewhere behind her, she heard McGonagall shout victoriously, “Take that!” and more Death Eaters broke away from the fracas. The big blond one, too, seemed to have recovered enough to make an escape.

Halfway across the corridor, Harry tripped over Neville’s prone form, and lay winded on the ground. Seizing the opportunity, Hermione broke into a run... but alas, Harry was back on his feet no more than seconds later, and he resumed his chase.  
Harry ran on, and Hermione followed. Not knowing where to... not knowing what for...

  
Harry ran, and Hermione followed.

 

* * *

 

Harry was a sportsman. He was built to seek, he had long legs, and he was accustomed to the hardships of quidditch training. It was no wonder that he had a good distance over Hermione as they raced down the Hogwarts castle. She was always at least a hundred steps behind.

On the third floor, she stopped, succumbing to the most excruciating side stitch. She stood before a large embroidered wall-hanging, gasping and clutching at her stomach.

And then she was brusquely, unceremoniously pulled into a dingy alcove behind the tapestry.

A strong, wiry arm wrapped around her midsection, pinning her against a hard form. Her shrieks were muted by a palm pressed firmly against her mouth.  
Hermione fought madly. She kicked her leg back, but her captor wrapped one of his own around her ankles, locking them in place. She jerked wildly; she jolted and she juddered... she screamed and screamed in vain into the palm that was silencing her...

“Stop it. _Granger._ Stop.”

Fear iced up her spine, and it froze her movements. That voice. She knew that voice.

A few fleeting moments after fear and recognition came determination. She intensified her thrashing, her desperate convulsing...  
“STOP,” Malfoy snarled, “Stop fucking fighting.”

She could feel his breath against the shell of her ear. Even as she struggled, she became all too aware of him... of his presence, the physicality of it. His arm wrapped around her like a vice... his body, tense and unyielding, pressed against her back...  
“I’m _not_ going to hurt you,” he rumbled into her ear, “Stop. Fighting.”  
_Oh, not a chance in hell, Malfoy_.  
“...PLEASE.”

She was immobilised once more, but this time in disbelief. It wasn’t so much the word (one which he had never deigned to use in her presence before) rather the way he’d said it. It was desperate, rasping... and it was sincere. He was _pleading_ with her. Draco Malfoy was pleading. With her.  
In that dim alcove they stood, still entangled, learning to breathe at a regular pace again.

“Look,” he muttered, “I’m unarmed, Granger. I just need to talk to you.” And then he paused, as though waiting for her to fully internalise that declaration. “I’m... going to let go now.”  
He paused, once again, giving himself time to imagine her nodding her head, or saying, _‘sure thing Malfoy’_ , or what you will. Then slowly, he loosened his hold... just a fraction... just enough for her to wriggle free, twist around, and hurl an effective, non-verbal _Incarcerous_ spell at him.

Bound tightly from his shoulders to his ankles, Malfoy stared at her, open-mouthed and seething.  
“What the _fuck_... UNTIE ME, YOU TWAT,” he fulminated, “Untie me AT ONCE.”  
Hermione, not quite able to form words owing to the awfully startling turn her night had taken, gave him a look, in the hope that the general sentiment behind the phrase, ‘ _Ha, not happening, idiot,’_ was sufficiently conveyed.  
“You despicable little bitch... UNTIE ME,” he raged, “I fucking _told_ you I wasn’t going to hurt you! Let. Me. Go.”

He looked more than a little worse for wear. In fact, he looked entirely drained (behind all that vehement rage of course) and it made Hermione desperate to know what exactly had happened up in the astronomy tower.

“What is _wrong_ with you? Are you just going to stand there watching me like a total sodding moron–”  
“I believe you said you wanted to talk,” Hermione managed to rasp out at last. Her throat felt flayed from the inside after all her futile screaming.  
“Untie me, Granger.”  
“Talk, Malfoy.”  
“First you untie – Oh Merlin’s fucking shit-smeared _pants_. Is this a game to you, you stupid mu – girl? Think this is some jolly little diversion? Don’t you realise that–”  
“That what?” she snapped, incensed, “That you somehow brought Death Eaters into Hogwarts? Yeah, they were kind of hard to miss seeing how they’ve been trying their damnedest to _kill me_ for the past hour or so–”  
“– for fuck’s sake–”  
“– have been engaged in a full-on _battle_ up there–”  
“– not interested in explaining myself to _you_ of all people, bleeding sanctimonious–”  
“– and then, after unleashing absolute hell, you drag me into this hole and say you want to _talk_? What on earth do you–”  
“SHUT UP,” he thundered, so loudly, so fiercely that Hermione took a step back, “Just shut up! I don’t care about your inane self-righteous bluster. You–”  
“How _dare_ you,” she shrieked.  
“Shut _the fuck_ up–”  
“– even realise what you’ve done?! You horrible, shitty excuse for a human being, you–”  
“JUST PROMISE ME YOU’LL KEEP THEO SAFE, ALRIGHT?”  
Her jaw snapped shut. She stared at Malfoy as he fumed and panted and glared back. It was strange that in a space so dark, where the only source of illumination were thin shafts of candlelight that had penetrated through the stitching of the tapestry, his eyes managed to glow, as though they carried their own in-built light. Like two pieces of backlit rock crystal, they shone turbulently.  
“What...?” she breathed.  
“Keep Theo safe, Granger. After all this... after tonight... they’re going to be out for his blood. They’re going to want revenge. His beast of a father is going to want revenge. Promise me you’ll hide him away somewhere.”  
“I... what are you–”  
“ _Gah,_ my sainted aunt, are you incapable of giving a simple answer to a simple question? The way you go on during lessons, one would think you’d be able to manage that at least!”  
“Malfoy– ”  
“I don’t have time to indulge your bullshit, you idiot! Just tell me you’ll make sure–”  
“ _Of course I’ll make sure he’s safe_!” Hermione rushed out incredulously.

And yet again – _again_ – they came to a standstill, staring each other down.  
“Alright,” Malfoy conceded eventually, “Now untie me, Granger. I’ve already wasted more time than I could’ve afforded.”

Hermione wished she could bring herself to scoff. She wished she could’ve laughed scathingly, abrasively, and told him to go to hell. She wanted to be able to bring herself to parade him through the school, all trussed up and bound as he was, and deposit him right onto Dumbledore’s lap.  
And yet... all she could see in her mind’s eye was Theo. Theo hunched over in anguish, bathed in moonlight... crying because he thought Harry had killed Malfoy.

Helpless against the pull of that memory, she waved her wand and let him loose. The cords fell away and after giving himself a light shake, he wasted no time in storming out of the nook... jostling her shoulder as he went.

 

* * *

 

Hermione allowed herself a minute or two to regain composure, with her head bent and her hand grasping a nearby wall for support.  
Then she sighed deeply, nodded briskly to herself, and stepped back out into the hallway. It was completely deserted. She could hear the low hum of commotion emanating from somewhere below, but she ignored it, choosing instead to mount up the stairs and return to the scene of the battle. It got quieter and quieter as she climbed, and soon the only thing saving her from going mad from deathly silence were the sounds of her footsteps and her breathing.

The seventh floor was the absolute pinnacle of extravagant devastation.  
The floor was strewn with chunks of rock, glass, and debris. Not a single painting or sculpture had survived. The fallen ceiling like a gaping wound revealed the first signs of dawn – pinky-purple and blossoming like a newborn rose.  Hermione thought it was outrageous and appallingly inappropriate for the firmament to present such promise and prettiness when the scene below was so tragic.

In the dead centre of the corridor, Madam Pomfrey was helping Neville onto a stretcher. The rest of them – the battered soldiers of Dumbledore’s Army – stood to the side, watching. Theo had his arms around Luna as she leant heavily against him. Her leg appeared to be bleeding profusely. Dean was perched on a stout boulder and had his hand pressed against a gash on the side of his head. Theo, Ron, Ginny, and Seamus appeared to be largely unhurt.  
Hermione took a step towards them, and accidentally kicked a small chunk of concrete. It skittered raucously across the ground, bouncing off larger pieces of detritus. The noise alerted her comrades to her presence, and they all looked at her in dumbfounded relief.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” Theo demanded, exhaustion preventing him from suffusing his tone with the kind of fervour he’d been aiming for.  
“I went after Harry,” she answered in a low voice, “but he outran me.” She came to a halt by Neville’s stretcher, frowning down at her blood and dirt smeared friend. “You okay?” she asked tentatively.  
Madam Pomfrey replied before he could – “Nothing I can’t fix in a jiffy. Now you all please follow us down to the hospital wing. Professor McGonagall’s orders.”  
With that, she levitated Neville’s stretcher and steered it down the corridor.

With a low groan, Dean lifted himself onto his feet.  
“Shall we?” he ventured, gesturing towards Pomfrey’s back with his free hand.  
“I’ll go find Harry,” Ginny murmured.  
“Wait,” Hermione requested, “What happened to... I mean... Bill...”  
“He’s alive,” Ginny answered, but not without a tremor in her voice, “He’s alive...” she paused, looking at Hermione through a thin film of tears, “Greyback messed him up really badly. But... he’ll live.”  
She walked away before Hermione could offer any words of relief or consolation. And that was good, since she really couldn’t think of any.

“Come on,” Theo muttered. Keeping his hold on Luna, he led the way to the hospital wing.  
Hermione lagged at the back of the group, examining the backs of the heads in front of her. It seemed as good a way as any to keep from thinking... she was too too too fucking tired to think. Tiredness was as real and material inside her as her blood, her bones, her muscles and sinews...  
Luna’s dark blond tresses where matted with filth; and yet, they caught the candlelight at strange moments, gleaming as though burnished. Theo’s light brown mop looked uncharacteristically stiff – most likely caked in sweat and dust. Seamus’ short sandy brown hair was tufty and clumpy. Dean’s cropped jet black curls were soaked in blood.  
Hermione turned to her right to look at Ron’s fiery red locks; they were slicked back. Dirt and sweat worked as well as any hair gel or potion in the market. Ron looked back at her, and she hated the cloudy patina that sorrow and fatigue had lathered onto his usually brilliant blue eyes.

When she staggered slightly, he put a supporting arm around her waist.

* * *

 


	28. Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, let me direct you to this aesthetic made by the lovely ElleMartin:  
> http://dramione-fanfiction-forum.tumblr.com/post/170023200665/wip-were-obsessed-with-d%C3%A9traqu%C3%A9e-by-hystaracal  
> Beautiful, isn’t it? 
> 
> Some of the dialogue here has been directly lifted (errrr, borrowed) from HBP.

 

Bill’s face was gruesomely marred, as though it had been deliberately deformed and distorted. His face was a Francis Bacon portrait.  
Madam Pomfrey, along with a senior healer from St. Mungo’s who’d flooed in not too ago, had tried every healing spell in their sizable combined arsenal. Nothing had worked.  
(“I’m sorry,” Healer Masterson had mumbled regretfully before leaving, “There really isn’t any known cure for werewolf bites.”)

All that there was left to do then was to stop the bleeding and close the wounds. Pomfrey was slathering a pungent green salve onto Bill’s face in that regard, and the rest of them (with the exception of Neville, who was fast asleep on the next cot, heavily doped up on various restorative potions,) gathered around his bed to watch sorrowfully.  
“Poor lad,” Tonks whispered. Ron made a low, gruff sound; he hadn’t looked away from his brother for even a second. There was a distressed, beseeching semblance about his stare, like he might be imploring Bill to just please, please get miraculously healed.

Hermione tore her eyes away from Ron’s vulnerable countenance, passed over Bill’s mangled one, and let her gaze travel down his duvet covered body. She looked at his toes, at the grill at the foot of his bed, at the fingers that curled around the top bar, at the palm and arm attached to those fingers... the shoulder... the neck – Luna’s neck – bent with exhaustion. She looked at Luna’s face, and her eyes that were blinking long and slow in a struggle to stay awake. She looked at the chest Luna’s head was laid upon, at the throat above, swaddled in the scarf she had painstakingly weaved so long ago...  
She looked at Theo, and he was looking right back at her.  
Their eyes stayed locked for an unquantifiable extent of time. He wore no expression, and gave no sign nor indication to betray what he may have been thinking or feeling. His eyes, blank but steadfast, met Hermione’s stare... and did no more. She felt her breathing accelerate. Her mouth fell open, just a trifle, to provide a better outlet for her quickened breaths.  
_Just promise me you’ll keep Theo safe, alright?_ The intense and impassioned plea echoed in her mind, over and over again, gradually losing its urgency the longer she stared into Theo’s unreadable eyes. The pitch got deeper, richer, lilting, monophonic, haunting... And soon enough, it was a Gregorian chant: _Just promise me you’ll keep Theo safe, alright? Just promise me you’ll keep Theo safe, alright? Just promise me you’ll keep Theo safe, alright? Alleluia Amen._ It was a perfect companion to the austere, church-like atmosphere of the hospital wing.  
Without interrupting his scrutiny, Theo tilted his head until it was resting atop of Luna’s. His nostrils flared unobtrusively. There were so many, many different ways the past year could have gone, and so many of those possibilities ended in a scenario where she didn’t have the trust, support, and friendship of this astonishing, unwavering, wonderful boy; even the thought of those hypotheticals (though their probability now was zero) made Hermione’s stomach turn. Oh, she would keep him safe alright – at _any_ cost. She would make sure not a single overlong hair on his head would be touched.  
As her resolve strengthened it must have become apparent on her face, because Theo’s brow furrowed questioningly. She blinked at him once: a gentle gesture of reassurance.

The doors of the hospital wing were pushed open, and the low and lengthy creak that came with it broke the poignant connection between Hermione and Theo. She looked up and felt all the air leave her lungs. _Harry_.  
She sprung off the stool she’d been sitting on and ran over to throw her arms around his neck. He smelt of smoke and sea salt and cold sweat; and though his arms came around to hug her back, they felt stiff and mechanical. They... _he_... felt wrong. She pulled away, falling back onto her heels to get a look at his face. It was covered in soot and dirt, upon which were clearly visible two narrow trails leading from his eyes to his jaw. Dried up tear tracks. She swallowed thickly.  
Lupin came to her side to peer at him as well. “Are you all right, Harry?”  
“I’m fine,” he answered hoarsely, looking over her shoulder, “How’s Bill?”  
Hermione turned and walked back to her seat. Nobody seemed to be able to answer Harry’s question. Ginny, who had come in with Harry, took hold of his hand and pulled him closer to Bill’s cot, from where he frowned sombrely at Pomfrey and asked, “Can’t you fix them with a charm or something?”  
“No charm will work on these,” the matron responded, “I’ve tried everything I know.”  
“But he wasn’t bitten at the full moon,” Ron counteracted, throwing an unsure glance at Lupin, “Greyback hadn’t transformed, so surely Bill won’t be a – a real –?”  
“No, I don’t think that Bill will be a true werewolf,” said Lupin, “but that does not mean that there won’t be some contamination. Those are cursed wounds. They are unlikely ever to heal fully, and – and Bill might have some wolfish characteristics from now on.”  
Ron dragged a hand down his face despondently. “Dumbledore might know something that’d work, though,” he said, “Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on Dumbledore’s orders, Dumbledore owes him, he can’t leave him in this state –”  
“Ron,” Ginny interposed sharply, “Dumbledore’s dead.”

The sound of roaring wind erupted in Hermione’s ears. She felt her entire body break into goose pimples; it was a horrible, horrible feeling, like a prolonged internal shudder.  “No!” someone (Lupin?) cried. She saw Harry nod faintly at Ron, confirming Ginny’s statement.  
“How –” Seamus and Tonks began at the same time. They both stopped and exchanged a look, and Seamus lowered his head, signalling Tonks to continue.  
“How did he die?” she asked softly, “How did it happen?”

Harry wet his lips, pulled his shoulders back, and gravely proclaimed, “Snape killed him. I was there, I saw it –” (...Hermione had to bite her lip to hold in a gasp; her focus was riveted on Harry...) “– We arrived back on the Astronomy Tower because that’s where the Mark was... Dumbledore was ill, he was weak, but I think he realized it was a trap when we heard footsteps running up the stairs. He immobilized me, I couldn’t do anything, I was under the Invisibility Cloak – and then Malfoy came through the door and disarmed him –” (...This time, she had to clap her hands to her mouth to keep mute, and beside her, Ron groaned...) “– more Death Eaters arrived – and then Snape – and Snape did it. The Avada Kedavra.”

Harry clenched his jaw after that, unable to speak any further. His fists were balled up tightly. Madam Pomfrey let out a distressed wail, and was immediately shushed by Ginny. “Listen!” she pressed, and pointed towards the window at the end of the ward.    
Against the pearly pink hue of the early morning, a phoenix was streaking across the sky, its scintillating plume rippling and dazzling even from a great distance. It was singing a melodic requiem of such terrible beauty that they all sat quietly with their ears pinned back, letting the powerful, heart-rending song wash over them... pour into them... letting it convey the awful grief of a moment that no human articulation could adequately express.  
Hermione’s eyes swept across Ron... Harry... Ginny... Lupin... Tonks... Seamus... Dean... Luna... and landed once again on Theo. His head was bowed, weighed down by horror, disbelief, fear, sorrow, and who knows what else.  


* * *

 

When Hermione was in her third year, and she’d had a falling-out with her friends over the appearance of a dodgy Firebolt, she would often go up to the astronomy tower in the evenings to watch the day end... and to wallow.

_Zipping back and forth through time was more exhausting than she’d ever anticipated. She was lonely, miserable, and terribly jealous of Harry’s special Patronus lessons with Lupin. She had tried the spell herself multiple times, but had had to contend with the shock of failure every time.  
So she invented a consolation prize – a modification to the bluebell flames charm allowed her to conjure a silvery blue mist from her wand; not remotely as iridescent as a Patronus, but by then Hermione was getting used to things falling short of her expectations. She sat on the podium which held a giant ever-moving model of the solar system, and gazed at the tangerine sky while conjuring a myriad of radiant shapes: a wonky owl, a serpentine dragon, Bavarian gentians, a perfect Fibonacci spiral... _

_“That’s very clever spellwork, Ms. Granger.”  
Hermione jumped and dropped her wand with a clatter. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Dumbledore watching her. With a small smile, he walked over and sat down next to her.  
“What are you doing here, Professor?” she asked him as though he were an absconding miscreant, rather than the bleeding _ headmaster _of the school. She flushed immediately, and attempted to stutter out an apology which Dumbledore waved away with a chuckle.  
“I came here to contemplate... much like you, I imagine. Great minds really do think alike –” Hermione flushed even harder at his casual equating of their minds, “– Quite a view from up here, isn’t it?”  
The universe was drenched in contrasting hues of copper and ultramarine. “It’s beautiful,” Hermione agreed softly.  
"How have you been coping with the Time-Turner?” he asked inquisitively.  
“Just fine, Professor. Thank you.”  
“I’m sure you are. I wouldn’t usually have allowed something so potentially dangerous in the hands of any student, let alone a third-year. But it was easy to make an exception for you. A student of such unparalleled aptitude deserves to be aided in every possible way in her quest for learning.”  
Hermione didn’t think she’d ever regain her usual colouring again. She nearly pressed her hands to her cheeks to help cool them down. “I... um...” she said oh so intelligently.  
Dumbledore smiled down at her indulgently, that permanent twinkle in his eyes surpassing the faint flickering stars that had begun to dot the sky. “I don’t claim to be a seer, but I am an old man. Age brings with it experience, refined perspective, and the ability to foresee the outcome of certain things. You will do wonderful things, Ms. Granger. You already have – and I am sure it will only get better. Harry is lucky to count you among his closest friends.”  
Her lip wobbled at Harry’s name, and of course, as with everything, Dumbledore caught it. He continued, “He has a lifetime’s worth of hardships ahead of him... and you... _ you _, Hermione, are going to prove to be of inestimable value to him. As a friend, yes... but also as an extraordinarily gifted witch. You will do wonderful things; of that I am sure.”_  
 _She breathed in, slowly, deeply, staring up at him in the hope of conveying her gratitude through her eyes. Her throat was too choked up with emotion to allow any sound to pass through._

_As the darkness of night spread across the vista, he smiled at her kindly and said, “I believe supper will have been laid out by now. Do make sure you eat well – time travel can be most draining.”_  
 _"Yes, professor,” she whispered, and stood to leave._  
 _“One more thing,” he called._  
 _Hermione paused at the door and turned around. “Sir?”_  
 _“If you would be so kind as to divulge the intonation for that delightful spell of yours? It will be a welcome addition to my daily contemplation regime.”_  
 _Hermione glowed, and with a wide grin, she told him._  


* * *

 

The phoenix’s threnody rang on till the sun finally broke over the horizon – a subdued smudge of gold.

 

* * *

 

  
After Harry had left with Professor McGonagall, Hermione hadn’t lingered for much longer in the hospital wing. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sitting distraught by a son’s bedside for the second time that year, and everybody who wasn’t a Weasley (or a Delacour) left to give the family some privacy. They walked together solemnly up to an open courtyard, and there they stopped for a few strained moments, each looking from one face to the other, as though grappling to find the right words to disperse with.  
Then suddenly Seamus exclaimed, “What is _that_?!”  
He was gaping at the sky above, looking astounded. Every head present tilted upwards reflexively, and Luna provided the answer in a shaky murmur, “It’s a Thestral, Seamus.”

It was simple after that. Theo turned away first, half-carrying Luna up to the Ravenclaw tower (he squeezed Hermione’s arm as he passed by her,) and then Seamus and Dean made to walk away... but stopped, looking askance at Hermione who hadn’t moved.  
“You two go on,” she told them in a low voice, “I’ll just be a moment...”  
Once they’d left, Hermione looked up at Lupin to find that he was regarding her curiously. “What is it, Hermione?” he asked.  
“Professor Lupin –”  
“Call me Remus, _please_...”  
She breathed a half-hearted laugh, “Okay. Remus. It’s... It’s about Theo. We need to find some place safe – some place _perfectly_ safe – for him to be until... until...”  
Until _when_? Hermione had no idea how to finish her sentence. Thankfully, Tonks came to her rescue.  
“That boy’s a hero,” she asserted, “Saved me from a very vicious severing spell.”  
“I’m sure we can set something up for him. Somewhere unplottable and protected by the Fidelius Charm...” Lupin smiled gently at the appreciation on Hermione’s face, “I was best friends with a boy who turned away from his family’s dark predispositions, Hermione. I understand the danger Theo’s in.”  
“He’ll want to be with Luna,” Hermione added, “I don’t think he’ll agree to anything otherwise.”  
He frowned thoughtfully. “I... I can speak to Xenophilius... Luna’s father, that is... I don’t think he’ll object to having his home turned into a safehouse...”  
“ _Thank you_ , Remus,” Hermione said meaningfully. Tonks stepped forward and hugged her.

With a nod, Hermione turned and began her trek up to the Gryffindor tower. Just as she reached the foot of the staircase, she looked back over her shoulder. Lupin and Tonks were still rooted in the middle of the courtyard, hand in hand.

 

* * *

 

The common room was chock-full. Students of all ages were sitting, standing, pacing around in their pajamas, and the monotonous buzzing of sotto voce conversation had filled the air. It came to a stop the moment Hermione was spotted standing by the portrait hole. A few of them came rushing towards her, questions poised on the tips of their tongues, but Hermione held up her hand warningly. She marched determinedly towards the stairs leading her dormitory, eyes stonily fixed on her destination. The sea of students parted for her.

Once in the dorm, she gathered some clean clothes and went straight into the bathroom. Turning the shower to its hottest temperature, she stood under an inundation of scalding water and just respired. The liquid swirling around the drain was red and brown... her blood and dirt... dirt and her blood... _Mudblood_... She brutally scrubbed her skin with a sponge saturated with body wash, until the smell of oranges was so prevalent, it was cloying. She breathed in the aroma desperately, seeking comfort... but all in vain.  
Dumbledore was dead. Sagacious, brilliant, powerful, seemingly indestructible Dumbledore... was dead. And so Hermione cried. She dropped the sponge, wrapped her arms around her waist and doubled over.  
Dumbledore was dead. Murdered by Snape – whom she was supposed to be keeping a watch on, but instead had just let slip past her.  
Dumbledore was dead. An assassination orchestrated by Draco Malfoy – whom she had had at her mercy just a few hours ago, but she had set free. She had just _let him fucking go_ , with barely any hesitation. Hadn’t she surmised, after the poisoned-mead incident, that this was _exactly_ what Malfoy was planning? Hadn’t she known full well that he was on the dark side? How could she have let him go? The only reason Malfoy wasn’t paying for his crimes _right now_ was because she had let him go.

She cried until her lunges ached. Then she reached out to turn the water off, and with that motion, commanded her tear ducts to shut off too.

In the world outside, the sun had risen fully, birds were chirping, and Parvati was packing up all her belongings while Lavenders sat on her bed and watched with red-rimmed eyes. Hermione looked between the two girls in confusion.  
Parvati glanced at her edgily, and cleared her throat. “My parents are here to take Padma and me home,” she mumbled as she continued to fling her clothes into her trunk. Lavender sniffed loudly.  
“I see,” Hermione said, “Well... goodbye.”  
Parvati stopped and faced her fully, fidgeting anxiously with a blouse in her hand, “Are you okay, Hermione?”  
“I’m fine,” she affirmed, “Take care, Parvati. ...Lavender.”

Weariness was a strange intoxicant. Unfocused and dazed, she shuffled over to the boys’ dormitory, coming to a standstill at the door. Seamus lay sprawled on his bed, evidently asleep. Dean, with a bandage around his head, was sitting on his, resting against the headboard.  
“Ron’s in the bathroom,” he said.  
“Ah,” she replied, slowly strolling over to lean against his bedpost, “How’s your head?”  
“Sore,” he shrugged, “Pomfrey’s given me a sleeping draught to get through the pain but... I don’t feel like sleeping.”  
Hermione sighed, and sagged just a little more.  
“Are you still kicking yourself for _letting_ ,” he said with accompanying air-quotes, “Snape go?”  
“We could’ve... We _should_ have stopped him, Dean –”  
“Don’t be mad. You heard Lupin, yeah? He would’ve killed us all if we had tried to stop him.”  
“There were four of us! We could’ve –”  
“It’s _Snape_ , Hermione. Dark wizard extraordinaire.”  
She bit her lip, tormented and guilt-ridden... and that was when the bathroom door opened, and Ron emerged amid clouds of sweet smelling vapour.

“Hi,” he said, and seated himself on Dean’s bedside table.  
“Bill woken up yet?” Hermione asked gingerly.  
“Not yet. Mum and Fleur are in wedding planning mode though – making a right racket. Loud enough to wake the dea–” he changed track with an abrupt look of horror, “...Is Harry _still_ with McGonagall?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe you could check on the Marauder’s map?”  
Ron went over to his bed upon which lay a pile of dirty clothes, and pulled the map out from somewhere within.  
“ _I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,_ ” he avowed. “Hmm... Harry... Harry... Nope, not in Dum – er, the headmaster’s office... not in the hospital wing... Oh. Oh fuck.”  
“What?!” Hermione and Dean demanded simultaneously.  
Ron lowered the map grimly. “Astronomy tower,” he said with an air of absolute bleakness.  
“Come on,” Hermione urged, and they left Dean looking gobsmacked on his bed.

 

* * *

 

The moment they burst in, Hermione and Ron encountered Harry’s back at the far end of the tower, where he stood with his elbows on the railing. His black-robed form stuck out sharply against the powder blue sky.

They approached him cautiously, but Harry’s heightened instincts must have alerted him to their presence, for he turned around. Hermione stopped; Ron stopped... and they both looked at Harry.  For the next few moments, they did simply that – they considered him across the expanse of a dozen or so feet that lay between them.  
“He was right here,” Harry said suddenly, “Standing right where I am when it happened. And Hermione... you’re standing exactly where Malfoy was.”  
With a startled whimper, she took a few hurried steps back.  
Harry went on, “Then Snape...” he walked towards them, stopping about midway and spinning around to face the railing, “Snape stood here. And from here... while Dumbledore _begged_ and _pleaded_ with him... he... he...” Harry raised his wand.  
Hermione went over to his side and saw that his hand was trembling dreadfully. She took hold of it in both of hers, pulled it down, and divested him of his wand. She then led him to the central podium and gestured for him to sit. Parking herself beside him, she kept his hand in hers. Ron joined them, dropping down on Harry’s other side.  
“I’m not having a meltdown, you know,” he informed them, “I just came here to get the Invisibility Cloak.”  
Of course, Hermione didn’t bring up the fact that he could’ve summoned it from anywhere in the castle. It was obvious that coming here had nothing to do with the cloak. The three of them silently contemplated the bright and balmy summer morning...  
...summer mourning... some are mourning...

She tightened her fingers around his hand and said heavily, “Harry... I’m so, _so_ sorry... about the whole Malfoy... thing.”  
She knew he’d assume that she was apologising for apparently not believing his ‘Malfoy is a Death Eater’ theory... and she wasn’t going to correct him on that. She wouldn’t ever be able to tell about what happened in that shady alcove – but she just _had to_ voice her regret.  
Harry squeezed her hand back, “I...” he swallowed, “I feel sorry _for_ him.”  
“What?!” Ron exploded.  
“He lowered his wand.”  
“What d’you mean?”  
“After he disarmed Dumbledore, they talked... for a long time. I think they both were stalling. Anyway... apparently, Malfoy had tried to come clean to Dumbledore _twice._ ”  
Hermione gasped, and Ron spluttered.  
“Yeah,” Harry muttered, agreeing with their reactions, “Once after the Christmas hols and once after... after the, um, bathroom incident. But Dumbledore turned him away – wouldn’t even look at him – said it was to keep him safe, in case Voldemort used legilimency against him. You know... the way he was with me during fifth year. I thought he’d admitted that that tactic didn’t bloody work...” He finished with a sigh.  
“Then what happened?” Hermione implored.  
“Then Dumbledore offered him an out; said he’d give him and his family a place to hide. Malfoy lowered his wand... and that’s when the rest of the Death Eaters broke in, and... and it was too late.”  
“Oh god,” Hermione whispered.  
“This whole thing’s still his bloody fault,” Ron countered mulishly, “He still –”  
“I know what it’s like,” Harry cut in, “Not having a choice.”

A gust of pleasantly cool breeze swept across, and the sound of leaves rustling carried up to the tower.  
“So?” said Ron eventually, breaking the fresh bout of silence, “Did you find one? Did you get it? A – a Horcrux?”  
Hermione started. The Horcrux! She had actually – honestly and seriously – forgotten all about it. Harry shook his head.  
“You didn’t get it?” said Ron, deflated, “It wasn’t there?”  
“No. Someone had already taken it and left a fake in its place.”  
“Already taken –?”  
Harry dug into his pocket, pulled out a lacklustre gold locket, and held it out to Hermione. She finally let go of his hand, and examined its plain, inornate surface.  
“Open it,” Harry said dully.  
Inside she found a crumpled scrap of parchment, and after smoothening it out, she read aloud: “‘To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.’ Signed, R.A.B..”  
“R.A.B.,” Ron repeated, “but who was that?”  
“Dunno,” Harry replied.  
“Hermione...?” Ron asked, shooting her a perplexed look.  
“I... I can’t think of anybody with those initials...”  
“It was all for fucking nothing,” Harry rasped heatedly, “Dumbledore weakened himself for _nothing_.”  
“What happened out there, Harry?” Hermione questioned tentatively.  
“Later,” he said firmly, “Just... not now. Please.”

* * *

 


	29. Twenty-Nine

  
It was late in the afternoon. The dreamy, smouldering heat brought to mind sticky, bittersweet marmalade on warm toast. The soughing wind, freshly escaped from Morpheus’ box of dreams, carried an oscitant drowsiness that it liberally deposited on all that it touched. The constant susurration of leaves (“ _...shh...shhh...shh..._ ”) was the sound that Hypnos’ wings made when they folded around an unsuspecting Zeus and lulled him into a deep sleep.  
The Astronomy Tower was made of ebony and poppy seeds. Harry reclined slowly till he lay flat on his back, and told the wretched tale of a bootless quest, a yawning cavern, an insidious black lake swarming with Inferi, and the absolute horror of having to force a debilitating liquid down Dumbledore’s throat while fighting to ignore his anguished protests.

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest as she listened with her heart in her throat. That was no way for a man as great as Dumbledore to go. She still believed that there could be dignity in death, and Dumbledore had been entirely deprived. Destabilised by a vile potion, forced to relive his worst memories, and then murdered by a man he not only trusted, but had tirelessly defended time after time...  
No. It was hideously unjust.  
When Harry came to the end of his account, he let out a shuddering sigh and closed his eyes. Ron levelled a tense look at Hermione, silently urging her to say something. She pinched her lips between her teeth; oh but what could she say?  
“ _Shh shh shh shh_ ,” the wind and the treetops whispered.  
The angle of the sun was such that a few rays fell directly onto the shiny bronze telescopes that lined one side of the tower. The light that bounced back, brilliant and blinding, scattered haphazardly across the floor.  
“’m sorry, mate,” Ron said weakly.  
From between her knees Hermione mumbled, “You were there with him... to the end. He must’ve been comforted by that.”  
“Yeah,” Ron seconded awkwardly.  
Harry said nothing, didn’t move, didn’t even open his eyes.  
“Um, Harry?” Ron asked uncertainly. He scrunched his face and looked once more at Hermione.  
“Harry?”  
She leaned over to peer at his face, and...

And it appeared that Harry had fallen asleep.

“ _Shhh shh shh shhh shhh_....”  


* * *

 

They let him have his forty winks, and by the time they finally left the Astronomy tower, evening was close to settling in.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry walked silently back to the Gryffindor portrait hole, and on arriving there, found a rather large and buzzing crowd gathered out in the corridor.  
“What on earth...” Hermione muttered, pushing her way through the horde.  
“Why the fuck are you all standing out here?” Ron blared, but nobody bothered to enlighten him. He then turned to the fat lady, “Quid Ag **–** ”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t go in there.”

They turned to watch Dean saunter over with his hands in his pockets. “Alright, Harry?”  
“Yeah,” Harry replied, “But what’s going on?”  
Dean shrugged casually. “Seamus and his mum are having a row. It’s been going on for a while... and it’s loud and bloody ugly.”  
“What’s it about then?” Ron demanded.  
“She wants to take him home. He’s not having it. So they’re going to yawp at each other till one of them caves.”  
“Bloody hell. My money’s on his mum,” said Ron, “She’s really er...”  
“Forceful,” Harry supplied expressionlessly.  
And not a second later, the portrait hole swung open, and an extremely frazzled looking witch in deep plum robes charged _forcefully_ out, tore through the crowd and down the corridor. Hermione shared a startled, nonplussed look with the three boys next to her, and then they all clamoured into the common room in a rush.

Seamus was sitting coolly on a plush armchair with a box of Honeydukes’ mini chocolate nougat cakes. “What some?” he offered. Ron practically dived into the box.  
“Um... what happened with your mum, Seamus?” Hermione broached.  
He yanked the box away from Ron and gallantly held it in front of her. “She’s getting a room in Hogsmeade,” he said smoothly.  
“You mean,” Dean said slowly, “She’s agreed to let you stay?”  
“ _Let me_?!” Seamus spluttered, “Ha boy, of _course_ I’m staying.”  
He said it like he was genuinely offended that they’d even considered any other outcome to be a possibility.

Ginny appeared out of her dormitory a few minutes after with eyes full of sleep.  
“What the fuck was all the yelling about?” she groaned, falling onto the sofa next to Harry.  
“Finnigan family reunion,” Ron said around a yawn.  
“And you know what the Irish are like,” Dean added.  
“Rambunctious,” Hermione finished with a nod.  
“Piss off,” Seamus grunted.

Conversation died out as they passed the box around, suddenly aware of how long it had been since they’d last eaten. The cake was divvied and gobbled up with singular alacrity, and everything else melted away. They had cake... and that, Hermione (and perhaps the ghost of Marie Antoinette) thought was plenty good enough.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Ginny visited the hospital wing to see Bill and Neville. The atmosphere there was the exact opposite of what it had been the day before.

“Look sharp, Longbottom!” Fred barked as he tossed a rather fluffy looking purple ball at him. Neville caught it, and threw it over to George.  
The twins, Bill, and Neville were playing catch in the hospital wing, and Hermione wondered what Madam Pomfrey would do if she happened to just step out of her office. Her eyes darted to the closed door...  
“We’ve put an alarm on it,” said George, giving Hermione a knowing look. He threw the ball towards Bill.  
“Feeling okay, Bill?” Ron asked.  
“Absolutely,” he answered, neatly flinging the ball at Fred. The wounds on his face were now mostly dry and much less swollen, and his fantastic bone structure was once again beginning to show through.  
“What about you, Neville?” said Ginny.  
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” he replied after completing his turn of catch-and-throw, “Dunno why Pomfrey won’t let me leave.”  
With a painfully artificial gasp, Fred began, “Strapping young lad like you? She probably just wants to –”

What she wanted, they would never know. Hermione interrupted Fred with a horrified shriek: “EXCUSE ME – _is that a Pygmy Puff_?!”  
“Mmhmm,” Fred hummed, undeterred by her vocal intrusion, “Say hello to Argus.”  
Argus sailed through the air between Fred and Neville.  
“You named your Pygmy Puff after Filch?” Harry asked with a disbelieving chuckle.  
“We found we really miss the blighter,” said George. _Argus_ was in his possession, and he tossed him from one hand to the other rapidly, before throwing him at Bill... from under his leg.  
“He’s a living creature, you maniacs!” Hermione spluttered, even as around her, Harry, Ron, and Ginny were laughing.  
“Give us some credit, Hermione,” Fred reproached, “We aren’t going to drop him. Two _very_ well trained quidditch players here... and one chappie with keen animal instincts –”  
“Careful, brother-mine,” said Bill with a toothy grin, “The animal instinct knows nothing of familial sentiment.”  
Argus flew from Bill to Fred like a bullet. “ _Honestly!_ ” Hermione cried.  
“Y’know,” Ron sniggered, “You’re forgetting that the fourth person in this little game of yours is _Neville_...”  
“Hey!” Neville protested indignantly. He forwent George, and threw Argus – hard – at Ron.  
“Cool,” said Ron as he caught the Pygmy Puff with ease, “Here, Harry...”  
Harry caught Argus with _one hand_. “Enough now!” Hermione moaned, and Argus went from Harry to Ginny to Bill to Ron to Fred to Harry to Neville to George to Ginny...

 

* * *

 

“Bloody controlling, self-important, _idiotic_ old –”  
“THEO!” Hermione gasped, appalled and revolted, “ _Don’t say that!_ Don’t you dare – you can’t – you _mustn’t_ –”  
“ _Mustn’t speak ill of the dead_?” Theo spat vituperatively, “Fuck that. Fuck _him_. He’s dead? Yeah, well he jolly well could’ve avoided that, couldn’t he? If he had just gotten over himself and _listened_ to Draco. Instead, he turned him away. _Twice_ , Potter said, yeah? _Fuck._ That old bastard. How could he?!”

Keeping with her broad ‘no secrets from Theo’ (NSFT) rule [Addendum A to the above policy: Harry+Voldemore+Horcrux related issues are not to be disclosed] and led by the belief that he _deserved_ to know, Hermione had told him what Harry had said about Malfoy and Dumbledore’s confrontation.  Now, she really, really regretted it.  
They were standing at their spot by the lake after having picked up a cucumber sandwich each from the Great Hall. Theo hurled his half-eaten one into the water with a restrained but furious growl. He was proper trembling with anger and despair. Hermione looked away. Across the grounds, she could see a throng of Ministry officials strutting into the castle – all coming to attend Dumbledore’s funeral set to be held the next day.  
Fixing her eyes on the marching bureaucrats, Hermione said quietly, “He was trying to protect him, Theo. You know... if Voldemort –” Theo barely flinched at the name – “decided to use legilimency on him, he’d –”  
“Bullshit. Draco is an expert Occlumens. Narcissa made sure of it... and if Dumbledore had just given him one fucking chance, he’d have known it too. Do you... Do you realise what it must’ve taken for him to do that? To go to Dumbledore... to go against everything, against his family, the Dark Lord... against _himself_... Oh, Salazar. And he turned him away. He _turned him away_.”  He gripped his hair, breathing heavily. Spinning in a wild circle, he strode to the edge of the forbidden forest, but before Hermione could take one step to follow, he turned around and paced right back.  
“What do you think is happening to him right now, eh? Yup, poor old Dumbledore is dead, but what do you think that psychopath is doing to Draco right fucking now?”  
Hermione swallowed copiously against the big ball of... something... lodged in her throat. “I believe... he’s being lauded for pulling off a successful mission?”  
He snorted scathingly. “Successful?! Darling, his mission was to kill Dumbledore. He _failed_. There’s no question about it – he’s being punished. Fucking brutally. Evil psycho-lord is particularly fond of torturing Malfoys, ever since Lucius got arrested...” and then he wholly, alarmingly _shuddered._

[Addendum B to the NSFT policy: Say NOTHING about how on the night of the battle, Malfoy found time during the madness to pull her aside and make her promise to ensure Theo’s safety, (he’d probably breakdown completely).]

“...We need to extract him out of there. Him and Narcissa. We _need_ to...”  
“Theo... That’s... impossible. We don’t even know where they are –”  
“Dumbledore promised! He promised Draco he would hide him away! Sure he was bumped off, but that shouldn’t negate –”  
“ _Stop it_.”  
“No! Listen... Draco tried to the right thing, okay? And your great sodding judicious old leader didn’t let him. You – you all – you _owe_ him this!”  
Hermione could only look at him, her face full of hapless pity.  
“Bloody _shit,_ ” he hissed so low it was barely audible, and stormed back over to the edge of the forest. He stood there with his back to her, hand pressed hard against a tree trunk for support.  
She stayed rooted to her spot until his shoulders stopped shaking... until he turned around and said he was ready to head back in.

 

* * *

 

With heavy steps, Hermione walked out of the library, sighing in defeat. She’d spent over an hour combing through the archives, looking for a plausible identity behind the initials R.A.B. All she’d come across were Rosalind Antigone Bungs, a ninety-eight year old pureblood of Hungarian ancestry, known for her exquisite collection of brocade mantles, and Rupert "Axebanger" Brookstanton, who... well... he’d fit right in with the Gauls in the world of ‘Asterix’. He was an Auror who’d died on the job in the early 70’s.

The library to the Gryffindor tower: it was a trail she’d covered so many times that she could walk it blind. She knew it in the earliest hours of the morning, and in the blackest of nights. She knew which stones on the floor had cracks, she knew where every taper hung, she knew every painting on every wall.  
And they were thinking of closing the school. This could quite possibly be the last time she’d be walking down this hall, admiring the way the lamplight refracted off the stained glass windows. This could be the last time she climbed these steps, dragging her fingers along the cool, shiny banister. This could be the last time.

Before she knew it, she was back in her dormitory. Lavender’s parents had whisked her away earlier that day, so Hermione had the whole place to herself. Feeling piteously forlorn, she thought to call Ginny over... but then again, there was a certain perverse fulfilment to be obtained by letting loneliness work on you.  
She pulled her trunk out from under her bed and began packing. Clothes, books, stationary – all fell pell-mell, spurned into motion by a bit of silent, robotic, wandless magic. Her thoughts were far, far away.

She thought about her unsuspecting parents, probably sitting down for their evening meal after a long day at the clinic. She thought about Theo, so full of anguish... she’d have to say goodbye to him too, tomorrow. She thought about Luna, Neville, Seamus, and Dean... her brave friends who’d so willingly jumped in to help save the school. She thought about Ginny, who’d lost her heart to a boy with the most uncertain of fates. She thought about Ron and the grin that once made her world spin... that held still some power over her. She thought about Harry – _oh Harry_ –

Hermione pushed open a window and shoved her head outside, breathing in a huge gulp of cool night air.

She thought about Hagrid, flat-out one of the kindest souls she’d ever known. She thought about dear McGonagall, the closest she’d had to a mentor. She thought about Flitwick; she thought about Vector and Babbling. She thought about Snape... that cruel curl of his lip (“... _insufferable know-it-all_...”) that she imagined must have adorned his sallow face when he shot the curse that ruined _everything_.

She thought about Draco Malfoy. How desolate and doomed he must have felt that night, when he stood before her bound in ropes... “ _Just promise me you’ll keep Theo safe, alright?”_ ... _Ugh_ , that desperate plea had lodged itself in the furrows of her brain. _Theo... Safe... Theo..._  
She thought about his hands, of all things. The hands that had pressed against her arm and mouth when he had accosted her. The hands that made beautiful, beautiful music when dancing over piano keys. Hands that held her books with obvious care, and wrote mystifying notes. Hands that fixed the vanishing cabinet and disarmed Albus Dumbledore.   
Could he truly, at that moment, be cowering in some corner, suffering the terrible wrath of Voldemort?

Voldemort. She thought about Voldemort and felt tendrils of fury writhe inside her like thousands of delirious snakes. It all began with him... and it had to end with him. Well, first they’d have to figure out _how_ to end him...  
Without the slightest bit of confidence, Hermione picked up her wand and attempted to cast her strongest summoning charm yet. “ _Accio_ Horcrux book!” she cried. And forty-eight seconds later, a thick tome bound in faded black leather flew in through the dormitory window. She shouldn’t have been shocked by how easy it had been; Dumbledore’s wards had died with him.  
She placed it on her bed – _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ – and stared. The sinister air she perceived about it was probably all in her head, but still she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Oh, she’d read it alright – every page, every word – but... not yet, not now. She didn’t like the idea of attending Dumbledore’s funeral with her head full of those secrets. It would taint the occasion.

She thought about Dumbledore; all his brilliant accomplishments, and his unfathomable decisions. She could only picture him at his spry, benevolent, and twinkling best; never as one who would manipulate situations, or ignore a boy desperate for help. She couldn’t imagine him crying and breaking down when forced to face the mistakes of his past. She couldn’t see him begging for mercy, nor bent and broken with death lying on him like an untimely frost.

_One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,  
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. _

She thought of Dumbledore and she thought, “ _Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!_ ”

 

* * *

 

On the soft, luxuriant grass by the lake stood a marble sepulchre: bright white and minimalistic – Dumbledore’s final resting place. The funeral was over; all the attendants had left. Harry and Ron had gone to take care of some last minute packing, and Hermione lingered by the tomb... waiting.  
The mermaids that had swum up to the surface to sing their lament were still somewhat visible below the surface of the lake, weaving through swirls and eddies.  
_I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.  
I do not think that they will sing to me._

The band running along the edge of the tomb was embossed with tiny half-moons and stars, so like the ones frequently seen on Dumbledore’s robes. Hermione’s gaze skittered across the panorama, taking in the lake and the grounds and the forest and the glorious castle. She now knew for sure that she would _not_ be returning to Hogwarts whether it remained open or not, and yet it wasn’t nostalgia she was feeling. It was some indescribable combination of resignation and approval; it had engulfed her the moment Harry said he’d be out tracking Horcruxes.  
Then she heard the rustling of footsteps coming from behind her, and all she knew was dread.

“Ayup little girl,” Theo said softly as he stood close beside her.  
Hermione licked her suddenly bone-dry lips, and... oh, _wonderful_ , she was tearing up already.  
“Hermione?” He ducked his head and took in her face with concern.  
“Yes, um, yes,” she stuttered, straightening her shoulders, “Look Theo. You’re a... target now. The Death Eaters are going to want to get their hands on you.”  
“Oooh, titillating,” he said dryly. Hermione ignored him.  
“So I spoke to Lupin, and the Order has set up a safehouse for you. He’ll take you there today –”  
“Waaaaaaaait a minute there, darling,” Theo frowned, “Why didn’t you speak to _me_ first?!”  
“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to refuse, and – no shut up, _listen_ – the safehouse is Luna’s home.”  
“Oh.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Alright. I’ll just swing by Malfoy Manor first, whisk Draco and Narcissa away and –”  
“Are you MAD?”  
Theo looked down his nose at her, “Perfectly sound, thanks. But this is non-negotiable.”  
“What makes you think he’s even there? It was the first place the Ministry looked. Haven’t you been reading the papers? They tore the place down hunting for him and Snape!” Hermione said incredulously.  
“I don’t care!” Theo yelled, “I need to see for myself. He must’ve left some clue... some... some...”  
Hermione wrung her hands desperately. “Theo,” she appealed, “He’s with Snape... with Voldemort... you’re not going to be able to find him.”  
“ _Gah!_ ” he howled in distress, burying his face in his hands.  
“Please, _please_ , listen to me. Go stay with Luna till this is all... over. There’s no sense in you running out into the wild and getting killed. Theo. _Please_.”  
Slowly, he removed his hands, and the face they revealed was disturbingly... lifeless. Hollow. “Fine,” he uttered impassively, “When will you join us?”  
_Oh god._ She bit back a sob and took a deep breath. “Well, I have to go home first and... and modify my parents’ memories. Then there’s Bill Weasley’s wedding –”  
Theo snorted in disbelief; “You’re joking.”  
“Heh. I know it seems like bad timing but... they all need something to celebrate...”  
“Right. Delightful,” he said in a clipped manner, “And then you’ll come to the safehouse?”

The way he was looking at her, challengingly and searchingly, made Hermione certain he knew full well that she wasn’t planning on joining him. He was just waiting for her to confirm it out loud.  
“I’ll be going with Harry. Dumbledore gave him a task to do, and I –”  
“No. Sorry. Absolutely not.”  
Exhaling heavily, she timidly reached out to touch his arm... but he jerked out of reach.  
“Hermione, no. _There’s no sense in you running out into the wild and getting killed,_ yeah?” he parroted savagely.  
“I’m not going in blind, Theo –” (she absolutely was,) “– We have to do this! It’s the only way to stop Voldemort!”  
“What?” he demanded through gritted teeth, “What do you have to do?”  
“I... I can’t...” she stuttered.  
“You can’t tell me?!” His eyes widened unbelievingly, “Seriously...?”  
“I _can’t_ , Theo... Oh, I really can’t! You know I trust you more than anyone –” and he turned away from her in disgust “– I _do_. You _know_ that. But this is Harry’s secret to tell, and I can’t –”  
“For FUCK’S SAKE,” he growled, “ _Harry’s task, Harry secret;_ Harry, Harry, Harry. Why is he the main bloody protagonist in your life story? It’s pathetic. You make everything about him. You go scurrying after him no matter what –”  
“This is not just about him! Come on, Theo – it’s about stopping Voldemort, and yes, unfortunately that all comes down to Harry!”  
“EXACTLY! It comes down to _Harry._ Not you!”  
“I can’t abandon him! He needs me, and –”  
“Well, of course he needs you! He probably won’t last a day without you watching his bumptious chosen arse!”  
“So _then?!_ You know I have to go with him!”

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. He looked shrewdly at Hermione for a full minute, and then said, “I’m coming with you.”  
“ _Ughhhgoorrrd,_ ” Hermione breathed, “ _No!_ ”  
“Yes. I. Am.” he said forcefully.  
“Harry’s scarcely agreed to let Ron and me go along! He’ll never agree to this...”  
“Oh! _Oh my_! King Potter cannot handle a ‘ _too bad, bugger off, suck it up’_ is it?!”  
“It’s _his_ mission, Theo! If you do this, he might... he might not let _me_ go along either –”  
“Good! Excellent! Problem solved!”  
“He _needs_ me, and –”  
“ _I_ NEED YOU,” Theo shouted, stalking impossibly close to her, “ _I_ need you! My wellness... my sanity... my fucking life depends on you now, okay? I _need_ you. I don’t know where the _hell_ Draco is – and I... I won’t... I won’t be able to go on if something were to happen to you. Hermione. _I need you_.”

There was a watery shimmer across his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the state Hermione was in. Tears were falling rapidly down her heated cheeks.  
“ _Nothing_ ,” she stressed, “Is going to happen to me.”  
“Merlin love a Dugbog... _please_! You can’t know that!” he differed fervently.  
“But I do! Nothing is going to happen to me because I refuse to let it! No listen,” she implored hotly when he scoffed, “I absolutely and wholly intend to get through this godawful shitstorm with my mind and body intact. And you know full well that nothing can oppose the force of my determination.”  
Her words weren’t... effective. Theo was looking miserable and entirely unimpressed. In a fit of desperation, Hermione said every damn thing that popped into her head.  
“I have a list!” she exclaimed, “Things I simply have to do, see... and... and... House-elves! Societal inequality! The Muggle Studies curriculum!”  
“You’re a lunatic! You’re batty! Stop this nonsense, you’re –”  
“Werewolves! Medical synthesis! The Weird Sisters have nothing on The Who! Theo, I’ll see you when it’s all over, okay? I’ll take you to that favourite bakery of mine. I’ll take you to the cinema. I’ll restore my parents’ memories, and we can all go together!”

Nearly every word she spoke was punctuated with a sob. She stared up at Theo and took in his every feature: floppy, tousled hair (which she realised – with a start – was nearly the same colour as hers); thin, angular face (currently flushed with emotion); deep, _deep_ blue eyes (like the ocean at night). He pursed his lips (rightfully made to be pulled up in a mischievous grin,) and blinked the moisture away from his eyes.  
“I’d like to meet them,” he said croakily, “You parents.”  
“They’ll adore you.”  
“’Course they will. Everybody does.”  
Hermione sputtered out a watery laugh. Then she threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her back immediately, lifting her right off the ground. She closed her eyes and buried her nose in his scarf; she could feel his every exhale against the back of her neck.  
“Love you,” she murmured, and he squeezed her tightly against himself.

When she opened her eyes, peering over Theo’s shoulder, she saw three figures making their way across the grounds towards them. With a sigh, she slipped back down onto her feet, took a step away, and lightly spun him around to face the approaching trio.  
As they neared, Hermione recognised Lupin and Luna, but the third person was a stranger to her. He was tall and barrel-chested, with white hair so frizzy and fluffy that it made Hermione feel better about her own. Upon that atrocious hair sat a comically tiny fez.  
“Hemione, Theodore,” Lupin greeted briskly, “This is Xenophilius Lovegood.”  
“Hello,” Hermione muttered, but the man was too busy examining Theo.  
“So... you’re the boy, eh? The boy... that is, my Luna’s... er...”  
“He’s my boyfriend, daddy,” Luna said steadily.  
“Yes. That.”  
Said boyfriend was chewing his tongue nervously, struggling to maintain eye contact. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he rushed out.  
“Humph. Born on a leap day, weren’t you? Such people are known to be inconstant.”  
Lupin cleared his throat loudly, and much to Theo’s great relief, took hold of the situation. “We’ve secured the place... it’s ready. We’ll be apparating straight from Hogsmeade. Are you packed and ready to leave?”  
Theo nodded. Luna then turned to Hermione and pressed a piece of parchment into her hand.  
“That’s for you,” she said, “Remus told me how this whole thing was your idea... Thank you, Hermione.”  
Hermione hugged her, and in the lowest tone she could manage, she whispered into her ear: “Take care of him.”  
“I will,” she whispered back. They broke apart, and Luna looked Hermione dead in the eye, “And you take care of yourself.”

There was nothing else left to do or say. But still, Hermione wanted one last chance to look at Theo – just _look_ at him – and so that’s what she did. “Come on,” she vaguely registered Luna say as she led Lupin and her father away.  
Theo’s mouth was quivering, but besides that, his expression was placid. His eyes... oh but his eyes were tumultuous.  
“Well,” Hermione rasped, “Goodbye.”  
“Goodbye.”  
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes. When she felt a gust of cool air hit her face, she knew he was no longer standing in front of her. Unable to watch him retreat, she turned to face Dumbledore’s tomb again and stared at the glossy marble, at the half-moons and stars, until her tears caused it to blur into a giant white blob. She swiped at her eyes, and stared at the grass, the damp hem of her sombre dress robes, and finally looked at the parchment Luna had given her.  
‘ _The Lovegood House is located at Ottery St Catchpole in Devon, England.’  
_

How long did she stand there? It was hard to determine. She was in a strange state of semi-awareness, from which she was only (and abruptly) pulled out of when Ginny came and stood next to her.  
“The train’s set to leave in half an hour,” she said.  
Hermione nodded, and with an arm around each other’s waists, the two girls turned back towards the castle.  
“Harry broke up with me. ...And you’re not surprised at all.”  
Hermione pulled a sympathetic face, “Are you?”  
“No,” Ginny sighed.  
“How are you?”  
“I’m... not surprised,” she answered bleakly, “And you? Alright?”

Hermione looked up at the turrets and spires of the place that had been her second home for the last six years. It was the end of the world as she knew it, and  
“I feel fine,” she said.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, I have officially put away The Half-Blood Prince. We will now be delving into The Deathly Hallows territory.


	30. Thirty

 

Colourful little buildings lined the road, and Hermione watched them blur by from the backseat of her dad’s old Bentley as it zipped across Kentish Town. Tendrils of Ian Curtis’ warbling baritone escaped from the stereo:  
_I've seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain,  
And the bodies obtained, the bodies obtained... _

“Alright, out with it,” said dad, shooting her a look through the rear view mirror. “What’s wrong? You’ve barely said a word since you got off the train.”  
She knew there was no use in telling outright lies – her parents would know them for what they were immediately. Half-truths and prevarication were the way to go. So she replied, “Professor Dumbledore died. His funeral was just this morning.”  
Mum gasped, “What happened?”  
“He was a hundred and fifteen years old.”  
“Ah, that’ll do it,” said dad, not unkindly, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”  
“Hmm,” she said, hoping that that was the end of the conversation.  
“Had he been ill?” mum asked.  
“Er, a little. Then he... took a dreadful – fatal – tumble two nights ago.”  
“Oh god,” mum sighed sadly, “Poor Harry must be devastated.”  
“He is.”

Mum made a small sympathetic noise, and for a short spell they sat in silence, save for the humming of the motor, and Joy Division.

 _This is the car at the edge of the road,_  
_There's nothing disturbed, all the windows are closed._  
_I guess you were right, when we talked in the heat,_  
_There's no room for the weak, no room for the weak._

“I know I tell you this every year and it never ends up happening, but you should call Harry over for dinner sometime. Ron, too. Actually, you might as well ask all the Weasleys –”  
“Robert, please, _no_!” mum interrupted with something akin to panic.  
Dad chuckled, “You really, _really_ don’t like Arthur and Molly, do you?”  
“They treat us like we’re remarkably clever and amusing circus animals,” mum sniffed, “Arthur is unbearable with his ridiculous enthusiasm.”  
“Come now, Evie,” dad chided, “He means well. Our... um... ‘ _muggle_ ’, Hermione?”  
“Yes,” Hermione affirmed.  
“Right. Our muggle bits and bobs are all new to him.”  
“And magic isn’t to us?” mum demanded, “Actually, we ought be behaving like him, considering we were, out of the blue, thrown into a bloody fantasy novel. Is a little bit of decorum too much to ask for? And his _wife_. Heavens, all she wants to do is exchange recipes.”  
Hermione and dad both laughed at that. Even if mum wasn’t utterly hopeless in the kitchen, her unreserved contempt for conventional gender roles would’ve put her at odds with the homely Mrs. Weasley.  
“Honestly, Hermione,” mum continued, “If you end up marrying Ron I will be most disappointed.”  
Hermione’s face burned with mortification as she remembered all the times last summer when her parents had caught her dancing like a madwoman on receiving terse, barely legible letters from Ron. “I have absolutely no desire to do that,” she muttered, and on catching dad’s raised eyebrows in the rear view mirror added, “anymore.”  
“Good girl,” mum cheered.  
“Ron’s oldest brother Bill is getting married in two weeks,” Hermione said quickly before her dad could speak, “We’ve all been invited.”  
“In two weeks? We’ll be strolling around Aussie beaches,” said dad.  
“What a pity,” mum deadpanned.  
They stopped at a traffic light, and dad turned around to grin at Hermione. “We have a fantastic itinerary ready for our trip,” he said cheerily, “just waiting for the Hermione stamp of approval.” 

Bile shot up her oesophagus, but she somehow managed to smile back. “I can’t wait to see it,” she mumbled, staring at dad’s charming open smile, the crow’s-feet around his chestnut brown eyes, and the salt-and-pepper curls springing out of his scalp.

_Where will it end? Where will it end?  
Where will it end? Where will it end? _

 

* * *

 

Home looked like home – exactly as it always had. The garden was overflowing with sweet peas, peonies, and giant dahlias as big as her head. The faded brick house with its brown tile roof and spotlessly white casement windows was a quaint suburban dream.  
As dad busied himself with unloading her trunk, Hermione drank in the image before her. “Garden looks beautiful, mum,” she said admiringly.  
“Oh, thank you, love,” mum cooed, wrapping her arms around Hermione from behind and resting her chin on her shoulder. “I missed you so much.”  
“Me too,” Hermione replied unsteadily.  
“Really wish you had come home for Christmas. Not seeing or speaking to you for eight whole months is agony.”  
“I know, mum,” Hermione sighed, “Sixth year has been... mad. I’m so glad to be home.”  
“Move it along, ladies,” dad panted, dragging her trunk down the paved path leading to their front door, “The second innings is about to start.”  
“Speaking of,” Hermione began, amused, “Why did you choose to go to Australia the year the Ashes are being hosted in England?”  
“It’s what happens when I let your mother make decisions.”  
“ _Don’t_ start, Robert.”  
Dad threw a faux-exasperated look at mum, and winked when Hermione giggled. Then suddenly, his face contorted.  
“Oh, Jesus. Hun,” he whispered hotly, “Mrs. Henley’s back!”  
Mum gripped Hermione’s arm, “Do _not_ look at her. Move faster, Robert! Go, _go!_ ”  
“Let me,” Hermione said to dad, and wandlessly levitated her trunk a scant inch above the ground.  
“Thanks,” he huffed, “Damn it, hurry. She’s hobbling over!”

Mum fumbled with the keys before finally unlocking the door, and the three panic-stricken Grangers leapt into their house, shutting out the husky cries of, “Where’s me cat?! They took her ‘gain, devil worshippin’ scum! Witches! Me cat! Where’s me cat! They killed and et me cat!”

 

* * *

  
  
Late at night, Hermione closed all the curtains in her room and switched off all lights save for one table lamp. Sitting at her desk in her most comfortable pajamas, she rolled her neck, took a deep breath, and with a motion suggesting grim ceremony, cracked open _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

Four hours later, she turned the final page. Her skin was crawling with revulsion. Standing up with a suddenness that made her head swim, she hurled the book into her open trunk and slammed it shut, wanting it to be as far away from her as possible. Climbing into bed, she felt the remnants of the many shudders she had suffered while reading the horrible book.  
But at least she knew – in theory – how a Horcrux could be destroyed. It had to be wrecked into a state beyond magical repair. Ah, but to find something capable of inflicting such damage was going to be a problem. Hermione groaned into her pillow; it was just one thing after the other.

* * *

 

Hermione sat with her rapt mum on the living room settee, telling her about Arithmancy. They were deaf to the sound of cricket spilling from the telly. Yet, in spite of the noise and absorbing conversation, she was fully aware of the pointed _tick_ of every passing second – had the clock on the mantelpiece always been so loud?

Dad stalked into the room from the kitchen looking terribly tetchy. “Bloody dishwasher’s conked off again,” he groused, “That’s the last time I call that galling, smug old scouser to fix it.” Putting on a fantastically convincing Liverpudlian accent, he continued, “ _C’mon Robbie, giz a couple o quid for this here_. Bleurgh.”  
“He’s your brother-in-law, _Robbie_ ,” mum reminded him with a smile.  
“Not for much longer... Oh! Headley’s bowling up a storm today!” Dad settled down on the armchair in front of the telly, and it was clear that he was lost to them for the next few hours.

Hermione turned to mum, “Aunt Vicky’s getting a divorce?”  
“Yes. And your father’s never been prouder of his little sister,” mum smirked.

“For god’s sake, YOU COULD’VE CAUGHT THAT YOU DUNDERING BUFFOON!”

After sharing an indulgent laugh, mother and daughter returned to their discussion. The _tick-tick-ticking_ clock never relented.

 

* * *

 

Hermione stepped into the house (with her purse full of money) sometime around noon, after a quick trip to the local Building Society branch. The few thousand pounds didn’t feel like much when uncertainty stretched on endlessly in front of her.

Her parents were at work, and she had the place to herself for the next six hours; she was determined to make the most of it. First order of business: organising luggage. Digging deep into her wardrobe, she pulled out a tiny amethyst-coloured pouch, covered in intricate beadwork. It had been a gift from her Aunt Malorie on her fifteenth birthday. She sat cross-legged on the floor with a book on advanced charms open before her, and closely read the instructions for casting an undetectable extension charm.  
“ _Capacious extremis_ ,” she intoned, waving her wand in spiral over the bag. Then she stuck her finger into the opening... followed by her hand... her wrist... her arm... her shoulder...  
What if she were to just dive inside and live in there forever?  
  
Shaking ludicrous ideas out of her head, she moved on to filling the bag with every magical book in her trunk, followed by every potion ingredient, dittany, murtlap essence, pepper-up potion...  
She sifted through her clothes, picking out the most practical and comfortable items to take with her. As she went to close the wardrobe doors, her eye fell on lightly shimmering lilac fabric, and wistfully, she took out the dress it was attached to. Tea-length, strapless, and made of silk and organza – it was really very, very pretty. Well, she _was_ going to attend a wedding, wasn’t she?

After dropping the dress inside, Hermione took the bag up to the attic. Afternoon sunlight poured in through the skylight high up on the slanted roof, touching every corner of the cluttered, dusty space. She walked over to a towering stack of large cardboard boxes, wandlessly summoning the ones labelled, ‘photographs’, and ‘Hermione’s documents’. She put every paper contained in the latter into her bag, and vanished the empty box after.  
Turning to the other one, Hermione swallowed and precariously pulled the covering flaps aside. It was so like her mum to classify the photos by year and store them in neat piles. It certainly made her life easier. She went through the piles one by one, starting at 1979, erasing herself from every picture that included her. Nearly all of them did. She tried to be matter of fact about it; clinical, like. Her hands may have been shaking, her breathing may have been laboured, but she did not cry.  
No, Hermione did not cry.

She slipped a few photographs into her bag from time to time: one when she was just born, swaddled up in her mother’s arms, one when she was a toddler sitting between dad’s legs on top of a slide, one from each birthday, each family vacation, each Christmas.  
She laughed out loud at a picture from Halloween, 1985, when dad had insisted they dress up like the band Cream. In sensational shirts and tight bell-bottoms, dad was looking absolutely thrilled, Hermione was grinning with her giant childhood teeth gleaming, and mum seemed embarrassed to be alive.

By the time she finished, she was sitting in near-blackness. Her final move was to comb through the 1974 pile to find a photo from her parents’ wedding. How happy they looked! They were radiant, blissful, and so fucking _gorgeous_ , holding hands under a large yew tree. She brought the photo to her lips and lightly kissed it.  
But she did not cry.

“Hermione!”  
The call came from downstairs – evidently her parents had returned. She found them in the kitchen, laughing over something or the other. Dad saw her and grinned, waving a paper bag in her direction.  
“Mongolian beef stew and rice for dinner,” he said, “How’s that sound?”  
“Excellent,” Hermione beamed with forced enthusiasm.

 

* * *

 

Momentarily shelving her anxiety, Hermione let herself pretend that it was just a regular Sunday morning with her parents. Dad stood by the stove, expertly rolling crepes. Mum sat at the table, perusing the paper. She was wrapped up in a fluffy, cobalt robe, and her smooth honey blonde hair was coiled at the back of her head, elegantly messy. For the ten-millionth time in her life, Hermione mourned the fact that she had inherited her father’s explosive curls.

Mum yawned, blindly reaching out for her coffee without looking away from the paper. Hermione admired the delicacy of her neck, the cut of her jaw, the straight but gentle line of her nose, her thick and dark eyelashes... well gosh, she truly was a beautiful woman. Despite being utterly dishevelled, she radiated poise and grace. But even when overwhelmed by all that dainty loveliness, Hermione didn’t forget how forceful mum was; frighteningly intelligent, fiercely opinionated, brazen, talented, unconventional, and brave. If she could be even half the woman her mother was, she would be content.

Dad set a plate in front of each of them. “Dig in!” he proclaimed, “Anything good in the papers, Evie?”  
“No,” mum replied curtly, “Eight more unexplainable deaths.”

Anxiety soared off the shelf and speared its way back into her heart.  
But she did not cry.

* * *

 

And there it was – the final evening. They were meant to catch a late night flight the next day, and their tickets (that, unknown to her parents, were two in number and not three,) were stuck on the fridge door with a magnet.

Hermione stood in her room, purportedly packing a suitcase. In reality, she was putting away every single one of her processions – shutting away all the little pieces of her life thus far – effectively turning the place into a bland and innocuous guest room.  
Her books took up five large cartons. Her music collection took one, her clothes took two. It was a bleak undertaking, so she forced some fun into it. Skipping around and snapping her fingers, she made her things fly and dance around. It was a silly game, really... A lark! A spree!  
“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, the medicine go down, the medicine go down...”  
She sang, pranced, and twirled – but she did not cry. And when finally, all her things had been packed up, she put the cartons together and transfigured them into a large comfy sofa. The walls were bare, the shelves and dresser were empty, and her _Starry Night_ bedcover was now plain white linen.  
No, Hermione did not cry.

 _Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,_  
_In a most delightful way._

* * *

 

When she got downstairs, Hermione went into the kitchen and prepared three cups of mint tea. In two of those cups, she added a splash of sleeping draught.

Her parents were sitting side by side on the couch – Dad with his arm around mum – and chortling while watching _The Vicar of Dibley_.  
“Tea,” Hermione announced, steadily levitating the cups onto the coffee table.  
“Just the thing,” dad approved, “Thanks, sweetheart.”  
“Done packing?” mum asked.  
“Yes.”

It took no more than two sips each; then they were slumped against each other, deep in slumber. She switched off the telly and stood before them, her wand clenched tightly in her hand. Her body was wracked with tremors; she wanted to bolt, and she wanted to shake them awake... but of course, she did neither. And nor did she cry.  
The clock on the mantelpiece was ticking loudly again. She closed her eyes and gathered all her courage. She amputated the soft, scared, aching part of her being and remembered the sound of Theo’s voice in her head: “ _It’s the right thing to do, Hermione._ ”

Okay.

 

* * *

 

It took her well over three hours to completely alter first dad’s, and then mum’s memories. She gazed at their peaceful faces after, feeling drained and empty – but she did not cry. Keeping her eyes on them, she walked backwards towards the telephone, and dialled a number with quivering fingers.

“Hello?” said a husky voice after a few rings.  
“Hello. It’s me,” she whispered, “Hermione. Could I come over?”  
There was a short spell of silence, and then, “Now? Er... yeah. Of course. Don’t ring the doorbell, though... the old ‘uns are asleep.”  
“Sure. See you.”

She walked timidly back to her parents, touched her mother’s hand, her father’s hair, and pressed a kiss on each of their cheeks. Still, she did not cry. With her beaded bag in hand, she absorbed the sights around her one last time, and then walked out the front door drenched in hopeless finality. And no, Hermione did not cry.

The moment she stepped into the plot next door she saw his silhouette. Framed by the doorjamb, it was bold and stark against the dim light pooling around from behind. He waved as she approached – the same breezy, casual gesture with which he had always greeted her.  
“Hey there, lovely,” he whispered.  
“Hi, Pete.”  
“Come on in.”  
His hair was longer than before, almost brushing his shoulders, but he looked just as she remembered: handsome, scruffy, and well... cool. He led her up to his room, (the place where she’d spent many tantalising hours the year before,) and when there, hastily cleared an immense pile of clothes off his bed to make room for her to sit.  
“Drink?” he enquired.  
“Please,” Hermione rasped. Her tremors had gotten worse, and she felt oh so empty empty empty empty.  
“Scotch alright?”  
“Anything.”

While he fixed her drink, Hermione studied the posters on his walls – The Manic Street Preachers, Pearl Jam, The Clash... Over his desk hung a large woodcut portrait of Voltaire, accompanied by a quote: _Everything's fine today, that is our illusion._

“Here you go,” he said, handing her a glass of golden liquid.  
“Thanks.”  
It wasn’t firewhiskey, she mused as she took a sip, but the burning bitterness was still somewhat soothing.  
“Soooo,” he broached, “What brings you here at this unholy hour?”  
“I’m sorry about that,” she muttered, and he waved her apology away, “I just wanted to see you. We’re leaving tomorrow, my parents and I.”  
“Holiday?”  
“Um, no. We’re moving. To... California,” she lied in the hope that he would tell his gossipy mum, who’d ensure that that falsity would spread all around the neighbourhood.  
“Seriously?!” he asked with some shock.  
“Yes.”  
“ _Why?_ ”  
“My parents got a really good job offer...”  
“But...” he sputtered, “ _California_ , Hermione?! They’re all fucking sunny and happy over there. It’ll be intolerable.”  
“Perhaps,” she said with half a laugh.  
“When will you come back?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Oh.”

After a few moments of silent drinking, Hermione asked, “How have you been?” and he told her all about his term at Oxford. They were three drinks down, and in the middle of a conversation about the siege of Leningrad, when Hermione surged forward and pressed her mouth against his. She felt EMPTY, and like a dementer, she wanted to steal substance straight out of him.  
He kissed her back eagerly, after a muted moan of surprise, and gripped her by the waist. She opened her mouth to taste him – that vaguely familiar blend of heat and smokiness was somewhat subdued by the prominent flavour of scotch – and fell back on his bed, pulling him down with her. They kissed for a long time, deeply and desperately, barely breaking away to shed their respective shirts, and her bra. His hands travelled all over her skin; and hers over his... Oh, but she was still seeking... seeking... _something_ that continued to be elusive.  
Letting her hands travel down his body, she murmured, “I want you.”  
He jerked back and stared at her. “You mean...?”  
“Yes,” she replied firmly.  
“Have you done it before?”  
“...No.”  
“Look, Hermione,” he hedged, “I’m not sure –”  
“But I am! I’m sure. I _want_ you. Please.”  
He considered her thoughtfully for a few second, and then... “Alright,”... and he kissed her again.

A breathless haze followed. His touches were much more motivated, his kisses more purposeful. Hermione took all he gave greedily, wanting and wanting and wanting. When they were both naked and panting, he momentarily moved away to put on a condom, before positioning himself on top of her.  
“This will hurt,” he warned.  
“I know. Do it.”  
Bloody hell, did it hurt. It was a sharp, radiating pain that had her squeezing her eyes shut and digging her nails into his shoulder blades.  
“You okay, baby?”  
She just whimpered, biting her lip.  
“Shit, Hermione, baby, I’m sorry! I’ll just –”  
“I’m okay,” she gasped. And bit by bit, she found that she truly was. She felt full. Painfully, uncomfortably full... and it was glorious.  
“Fuck, I’m sorry, but... I _can’t_ hold still anymore...”  
She smiled, arched her back, and whispered, “Then don’t.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was just bursting out of the horizon when she woke up. Blinking as she reoriented herself, Hermione sat up and stretched. Pete was sprawled beside her, lying on his stomach with his face entirely obscured by his hair. She brushed the strands aside gently, and placed a parting buss at the corner of his mouth. She winced at the throbbing soreness between her legs as she stood up and dressed.

She didn’t look at him again before creeping out of his house. She didn’t allow herself to look at the building that was no longer her home as she walked down the street. She stared instead at her feet, and shook her hair down to work like blinkers and obscure her peripheral vision.  
At the end of the road, behind a dense grove of beech trees, Hermione spun on the spot and disapparated.

 

* * *

 

There was a hillock not too far from the burrow that provided quite a spectacular view of the area. Upon it sat Hermione watching the morning break. She was urgently convincing herself that the wonky house in front of her was where she was to go, and not to another invisible house nearby, where Theo currently resided. She wanted so badly to see him. So badly, that it winded her. But no – Hermione did not cry.

The door to the Burrow opened, and Mrs. Weasley waddled out, wrapped up in a ratty tartan gown. She was, without a doubt, the most ostentatiously maternal woman Hermione had ever known; a mother to seven – eight if you counted Harry, and she knew Mrs. Weasley certainly did. However, Hermione recoiled at the thought of joining those ranks, even though she was effectively an orphan now. She had grown up under the care of the most perfect of mothers... there was no replacing that.  
As she watched Mrs. Weasley feed the chickens strutting about in the yard, she pictured her mum and dad... no, Monica and Wendell Wilkins, a childless couple, waking up. They’d shake their heads at themselves for falling asleep on the sofa. They’d share laughs and banter over breakfast. They’d spend the day finalising their big move down under. And at night, they’d board an airplane.

Would it really be so bad if she went to see Theo?

Yes. Yes it would. She was in no state to have another argument about her plans to go with Harry. So she stood up, dusted her trousers, and descended down the hillock. She did not cry.

“Hermione dear!” Mrs Weasley called on spotting her, “You’re here early!”  
“Erm, yes. I hope it isn’t a problem...”  
“Not at all. Come here, you.”  
Hermione was pulled into a warm trademark Molly Weasley hug; it was brief, but she savoured it.  
“You’ll be rooming with Ginny, of course,” Mrs. Weasley said as they walked into the house, “Would you like to go and freshen up? She’s still asleep, but not even a herd of feral hippogriffs could wake her.”  
Hermione smiled, “Yes, thank you.”  
“Where are your things, dear?” Mrs. Weasley asked with a puzzled glance at Hermione’s tiny bag.  
“All in here,” Hermione answered awkwardly.  
Though it earned her a suspicious look, Mrs. Weasley didn’t pursue that line of questioning, “Go along then. I’ll get started on breakfast. Now that this is the new headquarters, there are so many more mouths to feed.”  
She bustled away, and Hermione saw herself up the stairs and into Ginny’s room.

Dark times change a lot of things, and that included Ginny’s sleeping habits. It turned out that it didn’t take a herd of hippogriffs... it took no more than the sound of a  door closing to wake her.  
“Wha – Hermione?” Ginny mumbled as she rubbed her eyes and wearily sat up, “What time is it?”  
“Six-thirty. Sorry for waking you... go back to sleep.”  
“Nah, ‘sfine.” Ginny shoved her hair back from her face and huffed. She scooted a bit to the side and patted the space next to her, wordlessly telling Hermione to sit.  
Hermione complied and asked, “How’re things?”  
“Insane,” Ginny responded promptly, “Between Order meetings and wedding planning there isn’t a moment of peace around here.”  
“Hmm.”  
“What about you? How’re your parents?”

Hermione knew immediately that that was the moment she was to break. Maybe it was the fact that she had finally slowed down, maybe it was Ginny's straight question, or maybe it was the genuine concern in her eyes.  
“I... I... I had to do the most _awful thing_...” was all she managed to say before bursting into tears. Yes – Hermione cried.  
“Hermione!” Ginny exclaimed in alarm, “What is it?”  
But she was too far gone to be able to speak. Ginny pulled her close and wrapped her arms tightly around her. “What...? _What_?” she demanded frantically.  
When Hermione merely shook her head and sobbed into her nightshirt, Ginny sighed. She gently rocked her – back and forth and back and forth – and stroked her hair.

* * *

 


	31. Thirty-One

****  
Hermione slept through most of the morning (thanks to a much needed gulp of dreamless sleep potion,) and after a long and calming shower, she went down to the Burrow’s kitchen for lunch. Or, at least, that was the plan until she ran into Ron at the landing outside Ginny’s room.  
“Blimey!” he exclaimed, “Hermione! You’re here!”   
“It would appear so,” she said, the end of her sentence getting muffled against his chest as he yanked her into his arms.   
“Jolly good to see you,” he chattered on as they descended, “Place is a madhouse, by the way. If you thought there were too many people here before...”

Mrs. Weasley had set up a table in the back garden to accommodate all her many guests, and when Hermione stepped out she was inundated by the sound of multiple, simultaneous conversations and the clattering of cutlery. As discreetly as possible, she slid into a chair between Tonks and Ginny. Ron dithered conspicuously behind her for a long moment, before taking a seat next to Moody on the other side of the table. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was displeased by that arrangement.

“Hi Hermione,” Tonks greeted with a glittering smile, “Lookie here!” She waggled the fingers of her left hand, and on her ring finger, a slim gold band gleamed in the bright afternoon sunlight.   
Hermione looked from her to Lupin with surprise and delight. “You got married?” she gasped, “Congratulations!”   
“Two days ago!” Tonks beamed, “Just a quiet ceremony in my parents’ garden. Well, it was quiet until dinner, when –”   
“That’s enough, Dora,” Lupin chided. Unlike his radiant wife, he looked more careworn and drawn than ever. But when he met Hermione’s eye he offered her a tight semblance of a smile.

Curious as she was about what it was that had disrupted their quite dinner, Hermione’s attention was stolen away from the couple due to a small explosion from the far end of the table. Mad-Eye Moody sat stock-still with his hand frozen in front of his open mouth... and every inch of his skin and hair was covered with chunks of ham, bread, and assorted vegetables. Utter silence struck the gathering as they all waited with bated breath for the impending _second_ explosion that would be Moody’s temper.

“FRED,” he roared, pounding his fists on the table, “GEORGE!”   
The twins were looking absolutely horrified.   
“Now, Moody,” said Fred in a conciliating manner, “Keep calm, yeah?”   
“CALM?!” he bellowed, “You stupid, ginger, good-for-nothing _cretins_ ; I’LL KILL YOU!” He roughly wiped a globule of mustard off his glass eye and stood up thunderously, a motion that caused a great lot of food-debris to rain down on the grass around him.   
“Okay, listen,” George stuttered, “It was an accident, alright? That mini-bomb was meant to reach Ron’s plate...”   
“HA!” Ron barked, but everybody ignored him. They chose instead to watch the twins ditch their seats and slowly walk backwards and away from the table, hands raised in what was meant to be a placating symbol of surrender.   
“I am,” Moody growled, bearing down on them threateningly, “Going to _kill_ you two. I’ll turn you,” he pulled his wand out of its holster, “inside out. I’ll transfigure you into flobberworms and feed you to the chickens. I’m going to shove _hundreds_ of those damned mini-bombs up your –”   
Fred and George turned around and fled.   
“COME BACK HERE!”   
Moody limped behind them, brandishing his wand. They scurried around the garden before turning around the corner of the house and disappearing from sight.

“Those boys!” Mrs. Weasley wailed, massaging her temples. Her husband quickly rearranged his look of amusement to reflect a more disapproving state of mind.   
On either side of Hermione, Tonks and Ginny were laughing irrepressibly... infectiously.   
“Serves them right,” Ron declared with glee.   
“Must we ‘ave zem at our wedding?” Fleur asked Bill miserably, “If zey ruin it, I will –”   
“Oh don’t you worry, love,” said Bill, still chuckling over the episode, “They wouldn’t dare cross you.”

All laughter suddenly ceased when Moody returned to the table. He was whistling and perfectly clean as he sat back down on his seat.   
“Pass us another sandwich would you, Molly?” he asked almost cheerfully.   
Fred and George did not reappear.

* * *

 

The twins were found later that day, immobilised and silenced, bobbing up and down in the middle of a scummy pond just outside the Weasley’s orchard. A sickening layer of slime and algae covered their faces.   
A large group of garden gnomes had congregated around the pond, and had made a game of out lobbing clumps of wet mud at Fred and George’s heads.  
  


* * *

 

Instructed to buff up every piece of silverware in the house, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny sat at the kitchen table with a pile of rags and a bottle of _Madam Glossy’s Silver Polish_. 

Ron was muttering petulantly under his breath, and only a few odd words were audible from time to time. “Bloody... sodding... miserable... _house elf_...” and the like.

The door opened and Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, Bill, and Kingsley walked in.   
“That’s enough for now,” Mrs. Weasley announced, “You can finish the rest after dinner.”   
“Oh thank you, _thank you_ , mistress,” Ron gushed.   
Mrs. Weasley spared him a sneer before moving on to pull a casserole from the oven. “And incidentally, we’ll be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow, to pick up your schoolbooks. Kingsley here has very kindly agreed to chaperone us...”   
“It’s nothing,” Kingsley said in his slow, deep voice, “The muggle Prime Minister is in Berlin for two days, so I’m officially off duty.”

Hermione and Ron shared an apprehensive look.   
“Um... mum,” Ron ventured, “Hermione and I aren’t going back to Hogwarts.”   
She turned around in slow motion, looking like she hadn’t quite comprehended what Ron had said, “I beg your pardon?!” she spluttered.   
“Hermione and I aren’t –”   
“You’re dropping out?” Bill asked looking bemused, “Seriously?”   
“Yes,” said Hermione, “We’re –”   
Mrs. Weasley rounded on her before she could finish. “You!? Hermione? _You’re_ abandoning your education?”   
“Unfortunately,” she ground out, “We’re going with Harry. Dumbledore had given him a task, and we’re going to help him.”   
Since the Weasley matriarch was too busy turning purple to speak, Lupin took over. “Dumbledore gave him a task?” he asked eagerly.   
“Yeah, but he also told him not to tell anybody but us,” said Ron.   
“But, surely with recent events in mind, you can –”   
“No,” Hermione interjected shortly, “Dumbledore made him promise.”   
“If Dumbledore made him promise,” said Kingsley decisively, “Then that promise ought to be honoured.”   
Lupin’s mouth thinned with disapproval, but he fell silent. Mrs. Weasley on the other hand, had regained her speaking abilities.   
“No,” she raged, “Absolutely not. I’m you _mother_ Ronald Weasley – I deserve to know where you’ll be going. And what about your parents Hermione? They’re perfectly content with you running off like that?”   
Under the table, Ginny clasped her fingers around one of her hands, and Ron took hold of the other. Grateful for their support, Hermione faced Mrs. Weasley with bravery she wasn’t feeling and said, “I am of age. I make my own decisions.” 

 

* * *

 

Hermione Granger: Ragpicker. That was her new designation.

She’d taken to scrounging around the Burrow, pilfering items she thought might prove to be useful for the forthcoming quest. And so, while everybody else was assembled in the sitting room indulging in a post-supper nightcap, she was raiding Mrs. Weasley’s potion cabinet. When she walked into the living room a few minutes later, her little beaded bag contained a good stock of healing balms and ointments.

Over the next two days, she also picked up:   
1\. A book of basic household charms,   
2\. A book on remedial spells,   
3\. A kettle, mugs, plates and cutlery, a billycan, and a large knife,   
and 4. Mr. Weasley’s detailed map of wizarding London.

One afternoon during lunch, she feigned tiredness and snuck into Fred and George’s room. Understandably nervous, she judiciously waved her wand over _everything_ , not wanting to set off any booby traps. From their room she took:   
1\. Two Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes _Broom Broom Kits_ ,   
2\. A handful of extendable ears,   
3\. One large box of _Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder_ ,   
and, 4. Half a dozen _Decoy Detonators_. 

She hurried out as soon as she’d gotten all she needed and closed the door softly, letting out a relieved sigh. Then a voice spoke from behind her and she jumped out of her skin.   
“Got all you wanted, eh?”   
  
She turned around slowly to face Fred who was leaning casually against the wall.   
“I... I...” she stammered, shamefacedly, “I’m so sorry, I’ll put everything back –”   
“Don’t be an idiot,” Fred reprimanded, “I just hope you’ve taken at least a couple of _U-No-Poo_ pellets to put into Ron’s tea from time to time. Just in case he misses us too much.”   
Hermione laughed and shook her head. “I _am_ sorry, though,” she felt it necessary to reiterate, “I should’ve just asked you or George. But I just... um...” she trailed off uncertainly.   
“You’re far too used to sneaking around, you thrill-seeking little junkie,” said Fred fondly, “Now come on, we’re going to the attic.”   
“What for?” she asked, even as she let him apprehend her arm and drag her up the stairs.   
“It’s a surprise.”

Once they’d reached the fourth floor landing, Fred pointed his wand at the ceiling and muttered, “ _Descendo._ ” A panel slid away to reveal a small opening, from which a ladder dropped down to the floor. Fred tilted his head towards it, gesturing for her to climb.

A horrible sense of nausea infiltrated her senses when she stood in the small, dusty space, and it wasn’t just because it stank to high heavens. She was brutally thrown back to the day she’d spent cosseted in her own attic, pouring over photographs from happier times.   
“There you are,” said George appearing in front of her jarringly. Fred, too, had climbed up by then, and looking around, she saw Ron and Mr. Weasley there as well. They were all staring at something on the floor, and Hermione looked down and...   
...And she nearly vomited all over her shoes.   
Curled up on the floor was the most revolting creature she’d ever seen. She knew it was a ghoul, slimy and gnarly, but for some reason, it was clad in striped pajamas.   
“What the _hell_?” she yelped. The ghoul moaned loudly.   
 “Hermione,” said Ron, “Say hello to my doppelganger.”   
She pursed her lips and eyed the ghoul doubtfully, “Your doppelganger,” she repeated blandly.   
“My doppelganger,” Ron affirmed, “We’re going to give him spattergroit.”    
“ _What_ –?”   
“Fake spattergroit,” Mr. Weasley assured her, “Okay then. First we need to give him hair –” He tapped his wand on the ghoul’s head, and from it sprouted a vast quantity of red hair, “– And now for the boils and pustules. They need to be large and purple... and ample. Fred, George, take a leg each; Hermione, the arms, if you please...”

And so they set about the truly horrendous task of covering the ghoul’s body with oozing blisters. Ron watched from a distance with a sickened grimace twisting his features.   
“Merlin’s saggy left testicle,” he spat once they’d finished, “He’s really repulsive.”   
“Yeah,” George agreed, “But that’s good. People will believe it’s you.”   
“Just one thing though...” said Fred, before lengthening the Ghoul’s nose so spectacularly that he would’ve put Pinocchio to shame.   
“That’s enough!” Mr. Weasley ordered, and cuffed Ron on the head when he saw him bestowing the twins with a two-fingered salute. Then, squatting by the Ghoul’s hideous head, he spoke in a very deliberate manner, “Er... Mister... Ghoul –” (Fred and George began to snigger quietly,) “– Ron here,” he pointed at the same, “will be leaving soon.” The ghoul simply moaned, and Mr. Weasley went on, “You are to move into his room when he goes. Do you... do you understand?”   
This time when the ghoul moaned, he accompanied it with a fit of fervent nodding. One would think he was actually... excited by the prospect.

“Can we leave now?” Ron begged. 

They left. Out on the landing, Mr. Weasley pushed a small watermelon-sized bundle into Hermione’s hands – “This is Perkin’s tent. You know... the one we stayed in during the quidditch world cup...”   
“Thank you, Mr. Weasley. _Thank you_.” 

 

* * *

 

It was a beautifully embroidered, long-sleeved blouse in navy blue, and Hermione slipped it over her head, relishing the feel of it. It had belonged to her mum, who’d handed it down to her a few years back. With a deep sigh, she walked out of the bathroom.

She entered Ginny’s room in a state of distraction (she couldn’t stop her mind from constantly running over protective enchantments and defensive spells,) and hence, didn’t quite pay attention to the owner of the room, who was standing in front of the full-length mirror by the dresser.   
A few seconds later, the image registered and she spun around in shock. Ginny had a large pair of scissors in her hand, and her glorious, shiny, long red hair lay in heaps on the floor by her feet. That which was remained on her head, barely went past her jaw.   
“Ginny,” Hermione gasped inanely, “You... cut your hair!”   
“So it’s noticeable then?” Ginny asked with a twisted smile.   
Hermione’s subsequent laugh was more incredulous than amused, and she went closer and sat on the edge of her bed. “I’m sorry, I’m just... well, stunned.”   
Ginny shrugged, “I... I _needed_ to do something reckless, y’know? Does it look really bad?”   
“Oh, come on,” Hermione scoffed, “You’d look good even if you shaved it all off and wore only bin bags for the rest of your life.”   
“Don’t tempt me.”

It was true though... once Hermione got over the shock of it, she realised that the cut suited Ginny; it gave her an edgy sort of look that matched her personality. “Your mum’s going to lose it,” she warned.   
“Oh yes she will,” Ginny said with obvious delight. She waved the scissors about and asked, “Shall I do yours too?”   
“ _No_ ,” Hermione declined flatly, “My hair explodes the moment you cut it. It’s like –” she gestured wildly with her hands, “– POOF! A veritable lion’s mane. I’ll be declared the new Gryffindor mascot.” She paused to let Ginny laugh, and then after fixing her eyes obdurately on her toenails she continued, “And besides... I’ve already done my reckless something.”   
“Oh?” Ginny sat on her knees in front of her, infiltrating her line of vision, “Do tell.”   
Hermione felt her face heat up, and she squeezed her eyes shut before saying, “I had sex with my neighbour the night before I came here.”    
When she finally gathered the courage to steal a look, she was faced with a wide-eyed Ginny whose mouth had fallen open.   
“Galloping _Gargoyles_ ,” she whispered in awe, “Is this the same muggle bloke you went out with last year?”   
“We didn’t exactly _go out_... but yes.”   
Ginny’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times as she struggled to find the right words to say. Finally, she settled on, “How was it?”   
“Oh god,” Hermione groaned.   
“Did it hurt? It’s supposed to hurt, yeah?”   
“It did hurt,” Hermione admitted, “A lot. But at that point, I really wanted it to.”

They stewed in silence for a while. Hermione’s face eventually stopped burning, and Ginny shook the astonishment off her own.   
“Well, shite. My recklessness seems really insipid now.”   
Hermione chuckled lightly. And again... they fell quiet once more.

“So,” Ginny broached by and by, “You definitely don’t fancy Ron anymore?”   
“I do not,” Hermione mumbled.   
Ginny exhaled heavily out of her nose and said, “That’s for the best, I suppose. You two aren’t well suited at all.”   
“No,” Hermione agreed, “We really aren’t.”   
“And this muggle...?”   
“No. I mean, he’s lovely... but...” Hermione pulled a face, “Even if there’s a chance, I can’t think about it right now.”   
Ginny stood up and signalled for Hermione to follow. “Alright then. Come on –” she tossed her short locks dramatically, “– let’s go downstairs and give my mother a heart attack.” 

 

* * *

 

Late one Friday evening when dusk was at its most violent stage, sending blood-red shafts of light piercing through the Burrow’s window panes, Mad-Eye Moody paced in front of the large fireplace in the sitting room. He vibrated with flagrant impatience as the room slowly filled up, until every surface available became a perch for somebody or the other. Hermione was comfortably sat on a sofa with Ginny and Hestia Jones... until Ron come by and squeezed in next to her – unnecessarily close.

Once everybody had settled, Moody cleared his throat and revealed the reason behind convening an emergency meeting of the Order.   
“I’ve called you all here because we need to come up with an alternative plan to get Potter here from Little Whinging,” he rumbled, (and Hermione huffed to herself as she remembered how her suggestion to call the plan _Operation Spring the Stag_ during a previous meeting had been met with a full house of blank looks.)   
“Hestia and Dedalus,” Moody continued, “Your part still holds. You are to reach the house and take the Dursleys – in their car – at least ten miles away before disapparating to the safehouse in Upper Flagley.   
“Now here are the problems: First, Pius Thicknesse, newly appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has gone over. He’s made it an imprisonable offense to connect the house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey there, or Apparate in or out; all done _apparently_ to protect Harry, and to prevent You-Know-Who from getting to him. Absolutely pointless, seeing as his mother’s charm does that already. What he’s really done is block him in.   
“Second problem: The boy’s underage, which means he’s still got the Trace on him. We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment he turns seventeen he’ll lose all the protection his mother gave him.”   
“Brooms again, then?” Tonks asked, “The trace can’t detect those.”   
“Brooms an’ Thestrals,” Hagrid replied from his place by a window, “I’ll get a pair of ’em from Hogwarts. An’ I’ll haveta use Sirius’ bike... nothin’ else can take me weight.”   
“When will we do this? Harry’s seventeenth is four days from now...” said Mr. Weasley.   
“Tomorrow,” said Moody firmly, “Tomorrow evening, after sundown.”   
Kingsley raised his hand; “I’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: they think Harry’s staying put till the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we’re dealing with… he’s bound to have a couple Death Eaters patrolling the skies in the surrounding area, just in case…”   
“And that’s the third problem: Azkaban has seen a mass breakout. There will be more than just a _couple_ of Death Eaters. So we’ll need a diversion,” Moody explained, “Multiple diversions.” With a wave of his wand, he unravelled a large map, and hung it mid-air like a large screen in front of them. “We’ll give multiple houses the best protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we’re going to hide Harry. So far we have... My house, Kingsley’s place...” as he named a location, the corresponding point on the map lit up, “...Ted and Andromeda’s.... Remus, your place too? Okay good...”   
“My Auntie Muriel’s place isn’t too far from here,” Mrs. Weasley added.   
“Excellent,” Moody barked, “Sturgis Podmore’s flat is lying empty since his arrest... we can use that too. And... here... Minerva said we could use her niece’s house... Now, here’s the deal – we’ll travel in pairs, each flying to a different location. It’ll force the Death Eaters to scatter.”   
“But why would they even bother with the rest of us?” asked Bill, “They’ll just follow Harry...”   
“That’s where this comes in.” From within the folds of his robe, Moody pulled out a large flask of sludge-like liquid.   
“Polyjuice!” Lupin exclaimed, “So there’ll be seven Harry Potters flying the skies tomorrow?”   
“Precisely,” Moody confirmed, “Mundungus’ idea, if you’ll believe it.”   
Every single person stopped to stare at the droopy pile of rags that was Mundungus Fletcher. He met their disbelief with an inordinate amount of smugness.    
   
  Hermione couldn’t help it. She scoffed. Loudly.   
“–Is there a problem?” Moody asked testily.   
“Harry will never go for that. Six people risking their lives for him? Oh no.”   
“I’m sure Harry will listen to reason...” Kingsley began. And this time, Ron and Ginny joined Hermione in expressing disbelief.   
“Reason? Harry?” Ron jeered, “Ha. Not in these situations.”   
“Well we’ll make him do it then,” Moody growled, “Hold him down and tear his hair out if necessary.”   
“We volunteer,” said Fred and George simultaneously. 

Moody dived back into the plan – “We have seven ‘protectors’, or companions – Kingsley, Tonks, Remus, Arthur, Bill, Hagrid, and myself. Now we need the decoys...”   
Half a dozen hands shot up in the air immediately.   
“Good, good,” Moody muttered and began noting down names, “Ron, Hermione... Fred, George... Erm... Miss Delacour? Are you sure?”   
“Yes,” she said simply, taking Bill’s hand.   
“Okay... And...”   
“ _ME,_ ” Ginny yelled fervently.   
“Absolutely _not_ Ginevra –”   
“Underage,” Moody barked dismissively, (Ginny glowered but held her tongue,) “Mundungus old chap... I’m sure you’ll want to participate in this ingenious plan of yours.”   
“Nah, thank ye very much... I’ll pass, I will.”   
“ _Shut it_.”

Half an hour later, with their plan more or less cemented, the party sat down for supper in the garden, amid the sound of gentle winds and unremitting cicadas.   
...That and Ron’s unassailable grumbling – “Why me? Why _Muriel’s_? Why do I have to go to bloody Muriel’s? Right nightmare, Muriel is...”

 

* * *

 

It was so bloody odd, inhabiting Harry’s body. The ground was further away, she felt unnaturally broad and heavy, and the glasses sitting on her nose were very annoying. She was also very, _very_ adamantly trying to not think about the situation below her belt _at all_. 

Kingsley helped Hermione-disguised-as-Harry climb onto a thestral out in the Dursley’s back garden before leaping onto one himself. Though it was a dark thought to have, she was glad that this time she was able to see the great winged steed she was set to ride. _Gibbon, you louse, your death was worth something after all._  
On her right, Ron-disguised-as-Harry and Tonks were poised on their brooms. Beyond them, Hagrid sat like a boulder on Sirius’ bike, with Harry crouched comically in the sidecar.   
“Good luck, everyone,” Moody blared, “See you all in about an hour at the Burrow.” (...Hermione-disguised-as-Harry stared at her larger, tawnier imposter hands gripping the Thestral’s silky mane...) “On the count of three: One... Two... THREE.”

The motorcycle roared, and everybody took off. They ascended rapidly, all in a cluster; the phthalo blue sky and wispy clouds embraced them...........   
Like a bolt from _hell_ , a score of Death Eaters on brooms materialised from all sides. Without giving them a chance to recover, the black-cloaked figures set off a barrage of bright green streaks of light.

She heard screams... maybe _she_ screamed as well... and the Order members paired up and dispersed.   
Hermione-disguised-as-Harry directed her thestral to follow Kingsley, veering to the left... then to the right... and left... to dodge the myriad of curses coming her way.   
Thousands of feet up in the air with five Death Eaters hot on her trail... she thought she might actually go mad with terror. The wind whistled in her ears, adding to the cacophony of alarm bells and sirens going off in her head: _Danger, Danger, Mayday, Abort, Abort, Fucking ABORT._  
There were two Death Eaters on either side of her – two thickset men by the looks of them. The other three shot ahead to deal with Kingsley.   
“ _Bombarda Maxima!”_ she shrieked, aiming straight for the Death Eater on her right. She didn’t care that if hit, he’d fall to a certain death... somehow she didn’t care _at all._ The bastard moved out of the range of the explosion just in time – and his colleague took the opportunity to try and hex her. She retaliated – he evaded – and by then the other Death Eater had recuperated.   
_Fuck fuck fuck_. They were relentless... she wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long. Not without solid ground under her feet. She tried to stun them – a spell she was really, very good at – but _fuck_ they were nimble fliers.

Suddenly, her thestral bucked so violently that she was nearly thrown off. She flung her arms around the creature’s skeletal neck, as it whinnied in a horrible, agonised way.   
“STOP, OH GOD STOP,” she screeched.   
The Thestral did nothing of that sort. It reared and thrashed like a rodeo bull, so hard her bones began to rattle. And then it hit her – the smell of smoke – she dared to twist her neck and look behind....

The thestrals tail was on fire.

“ _Mum_ ,” she sobbed irrationally. Digging her knees into the thestral’s flanks and looping one arm tightly around its neck, she pointed her wand over her shoulder, and without looking long enough to aim properly, she conjured a powerful jet of water, followed by a swift numbing charm.   
“Shhhh...” she whispered into its mane, “Shhh.”   
It calmed... and the Death Eaters were back on her. Two bright white beams of light burst on either side... “ _Protogo!_ ” she yelled, and then, “ _Ventus Duo!_ ” Both her adversaries were blasted off course, giving her the opportunity to race ahead... maybe lose them entirely...

Up ahead, Kingsley knocked a Death Eater off his broom, who, with a dreadful almighty scream, spiralled headfirst towards the ground, and then –

  
The world around her froze... but she was still moving. Somewhat. It was like her thestral was flying through some sort of viscous gel. Kingsley and the Death Eaters were paralysed mid-duel – set dramatically against the dark sky, as if they’d been painted by Caravaggio. There was a static owl a few metres away with its wings arched. What the _fuck_ had happened?    
And suddenly he was in front of her, hovering with no apparent means of flight keeping him airborne. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream. Vol – Voldem – for the first time in a really long while, she couldn’t bring herself to even _think_ his name. Not when his ghastly, cadaver-white, snake-like face was mere inches from her own. Not when his blazing, blood-red eyes were boring holes into her own. Not when shards of something alien and malevolent were piercing into her consciousness. She was choking on her fear... but she could not look away. Red eyes. Red red _red_ eyes.... 

Voldem – _he_ hissed in fury... and then he vanished as abruptly he had appeared.   
The world was jolted into motion again. 

“IT’S NOT HIM. IT’S NOT THE REAL POTTER!” one of the Death Eaters behind her shouted. His four remaining comrades retreated immediately. 

She pulled in a deep tremulous breath. It was over – for now – it was over.   
“Hermione,” Kingsley called urgently, “Hermione, are you okay?”   
“F – fine.” She raised a shaking hand reassuringly.

  
And so, the final stretch of their journey was (relatively) peaceful. Hermione, who was gradually regaining her true appearance, trusted her Therstal to stay on track and closed her eyes.

And she saw red eyes. Red red _red_ eyes....

No more than ten minutes later, they landed in Kingsley’s small and tidy garden. On dismounting, Hermione found that her legs could not hold her up, and she stumbled straight into a heather bush.   
“Careful, there,” said Kingsley, coming over to help her up.

“How did this happen?” she whispered as they walked into his Spartan living room, (plain white walls, minimalist furniture,) and to the bent coat hanger that was their portkey to the burrow.   
“Somebody betrayed us,” Kingley spat, “And I intend to find out who that was. Here,” he held out the coat hanger, “Any second now...”

 

* * *

  
  
Hermione was standing by the pond where Moody had vengefully deposited Fred and George a mere week ago. 

Now, he was dead.

It was almost implausible that someone so powerful, so durable, so _constantly vigilant_ had died. She felt the same horrified disbelief she’d felt when Sirius and Dumbledore had been killed. Did anyone ever truly get used to death? Would it happen to her as the war progressed? Would she become that jaded?

_And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die._

The sound of people approaching had her looking over her shoulder, and she smiled thinly as Harry, Ron, and Ginny joined her. Nobody spoke.

“Oi, you lot,” called out a voice, “Mum says we’ve got to de-gnome the garden.”   
“Again?!” Ginny and Ron grumbled simultaneously.

The twins stood under the shade of the orchard, waving them over. As Hermione got closer, George’s t-shirt caught her eye. Bright purple it was, and on it, printed in bold, white letters were the words:   
COGITO   
EAR-GO   
BUM.

Harry began to laugh. It was that full, unencumbered laugh of his... the one that Hermione never understood. How could someone as fraught as Harry summon such pure joy? But it was also contagious; soon enough they were all joined together in boisterous mirth.   
“Told you, Freddie, didn’t I?” George elbowed his brother and grinned from ear to... gaping hole, “I _told_ you it’s funny.” 

 

* * *

 

“Listen Ginny, _please_ let me fix it,” Mrs. Weasley implored, “A simple lengthening charm – just for the wedding. You can hack it all off again after –”   
“I’ve told you a hundred times, mum. _I_ _like it like this_. You may not _‘fix’_ it!” Ginny snapped.

They were in the kitchen, preparing vegetables for dinner. Hermione had shuffled into the pantry allegedly to fetch some carrots, when actually she was seeking a good vantage point. She kept a keen eye on the bickering Weasley women, glad that they were so focused on each other.

“But the wedding, poppet! You’re a bridesmaid! You can _not_ have your hair looking like that. Fleur is quite distraught!”   
“Well, _Phlegm_ can go straight to –”   
“ _Ginny!_ ”

‘ _Accio Polyjuice potion; Arresto Momento,’_ Hermione pronounced in her head, and from the top shelf of a nearby cupboard, an entire crateful of vials started gently floating towards her. ‘ _Silencio,’_ she added, for good measure. It had been Moody's stash, but she refused to feel bad about taking it. 

“You’re _such_ a beautiful girl; I don’t understand why you feel the need to sabotage –”   
“Mum, you’re being absolutely ridiculous. Lay off, _please_ –”

As the vials soared over Mrs. Weasley and Ginny’s heads, Hermione held her breath. They cast the slightest of shadows as they passed, but thankfully, the women were too distracted to notice. When finally, they drifted into the pantry, Hermione held her little beaded bag open, and one by one, the vials fell inside with nary a sound. 

 

* * *

 

When she had told Ron about her parents, he had looked troubled and hugged her. 

Then she told Harry about her parents. He looked troubled, and let Ron hug her.

Neither had looked straight into her eyes and said, “ _It’s the right thing to do, Hermione._ ”

Oh, Theo. Theo. Theo.   
She couldn’t stop thinking about how close he was... and yet so utterly out of reach. Within her reach, however, were piles of Ron’s socks and underpants that she was packing into a rucksack. 

 

* * *

 

“ _To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard _,_ _in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive_.”

What a bizarre day it had been.   
Hermione had so hoped that it would be a day as close to normal as possible – that Harry would have a pleasant birthday full of cake, presents, and cheerful chitchatting. But things like that tend to go out of the window when the Minister of Magic decides to pay a visit.

Dumbledore’s will had stumped her. Why did he _do_ that? Why was it always cryptic clues, hidden agendas, and coded secrets?   
Here she had a book of children’s stories written in runes. Harry was stuck with riddle-embossed snitch, ( _I open at the close_ – what the earth?!) And Ron could play with lights.   
...Excellent. Lovely. Dead useful, Professor Dumbledore, sir.

Hermione set the book aside and lay back in bed with a groan. She was just _tired_ – tired of it all. And so she decided to read _Catch-22_ , using her fist to muffle her laughter lest she wake Ginny up.  

* * *

 


	32. Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dialogue in the second to last segment has been borrowed from DH.

  
Wrapped up in her bathrobe after a fairly luxurious shower, Hermione stepped out into Ginny’s room. Her face broke into a wide, genuine grin.  
“You look beautiful, Ginny,” she exclaimed.  
“Thanks,” Ginny mumbled with half a smile. Her bridesmaid’s dress was pale gold and flowy, with an almost dangerously low neckline. She’d pulled her shorn locks away from her face using many tiny glittery clips, making rubbish of Mrs. Weasley’s claim that they would take away from her appearance.  
“Get here, you,” Ginny ordered, patting the pouf in front of the dresser, “lets tame that wild bramble on your head.”  
Hermione scowled but obediently sat, and Ginny popped open a bottle of Sleekeazy with great fanfare.

There were quiet through the whole process; complicit in an unspoken understanding of each other’s preoccupation. Hermione thought about how much her mother would’ve loved to see her getting dressed up, since she so rarely bothered. It was strange that someone as unconcerned with appearances as mum would be so delighted when her daughter made an effort. A small, wistful smile tugged at the corners of her mouth... and disappeared almost instantly at the sight of Ginny’s face, which held more than a little rigidity – it was an explicit show of anxiety.

When her hair finally flowed smoothly and sleekly down to her waist, Ginny put her hands on Hermione’s shoulders and rested her chin on top of her head.  
“You’ll take off, wont you,” she asked, “once the wedding’s over?”  
“Yes,” Hermione whispered.  
Ginny’s grip tightened, but she sighed resignedly. “Keep them safe. _Promise_ me you’ll keep them safe. And make sure they come back home. Please –”  
“...I’ll do my best...”  
“– And you know... the only way you can ensure that is by bringing them back home _personally._ You have to walk them through the door. You have to be there.”  
“You make sure everyone’s there to welcome us, then. Every last one of you.”  
“It’s a deal,” Ginny stated; then she straightened and half-turned away, “I’ve to go help the bride get ready now. Not that she needs any help, mind you. Just wants someone to bark orders at.”  
With a small chuckle, Hermione nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Once Ginny had left, Hermione went over to the pale purple dress laid out on her bed. She shed her robe and stepped into the light material, wandlessly coercing it to zip itself up. It fit her well... she ran her palms down the silky bodice, smoothening out creases that didn’t exist. Returning to the dresser, she dabbed a bit of colour on her face: purple on her eyelids and coral pink on her lips. She bent to slip on the scary high heels that she’d borrowed from Ginny and transfigured to match the colour of her dress. And as the final touch, she conjured a small cluster of fresh lilacs and tucked them behind her ear. Then she took a step back and stared at her refection.  
The girl in the mirror was undeniable pretty... Hermione hated her.  
“What are you _doing_?” she asked out loud, “There’s a sodding war going on. People are dying. Your parents have forgotten you. Your favourite person in the world is miserable and trapped in an invisible house. You need to help the prospective saviour of the world realise his destiny. What the _hell_ are you doing?!”  
The girl in the mirror gave her no answers. She just mimed her words back at her... mocking her. Huffing in disgust, Hermione spun around and walked out of the room.

She didn’t go downstairs, where the first lot of guest were undoubtedly beginning to show up. Instead, she climbed _up_ stairs, all the way to the fifth floor – Ron’s room. There, she collected Harry and Ron’s rucksacks and shoved them into her tiny beaded bag. She took one last look around, smiling at the Ron-ness of it all. There was nothing else to do now... she was as well equipped as she could be.

 

Descending in four-inch heels was not easy. Hermione took each step at a time while keeping a steady grip on the railing. On the third floor, she paused as voices filtered out of the slightly ajar door to Bill’s room.  
“...you bring a date?” said Bill’s voice.   
“Come off it, mate,” Charlie’s voice chided, “I didn’t want to cause a scandal –”  
“Oh fuck off, Charlie! We all _know_. Nobody cares!”  
“Mum doesn’t know, Bill. She’d _explode_.”  
“Nah. She has six straight children to give her all the grandkids she needs... and more. You should just tell her –”

Hermione moved on. On the second floor, from Percy’s old room (or, the recently allocated Bridal station,) she heard:  
“...Ma chérie! Ma fille! Tu es si belle!...”  
“...Ces boucles d'oreilles en perles, Fleur...?”  
“... _Stop_ fiddling with my hair, mum...”  
“...Auntie Muriel should be here soon...”

On the staircase between the first and second floors, Hermione ran into a shrivelled up bird of prey in _very_ frilly magenta dress robes. Mr. Weasley, from a few steps below, said, “Ah, Hermione! This is Madam Muriel Prewett, Molly’s great-aunt –”  
“Oh dear,” said Muriel dryly, her red-rimmed eyes looked down her enormous hooked nose at Hermione, “Is this the muggleborn?”  
“Hermione Granger, _madam_ ,” she sniffed, “Nice to mee–”  
“Don’t muggle’s feed their children anymore? She looks half-starved,” Muriel sniped. She was like some highly caricaturised Dickensian dowager. In her hands was an ornate antique box that no doubt contained her famous goblin-made tiara.  
“Er,” Hermione muttered, stealing a look at Mr. Weasley who was gazing heavenwards as though begging for forbearance.   
“Speak up girl,” Muriel barked, “And straighten up! Bad posture and skinny ankles – such a shame.”  
With those grim words, Muriel clomped away with her nose in the air, and Mr. Weasley offered Hermione an apologetic smile as he followed.

 

* * *

 

The white marquee in the orchard gleamed like alabaster that afternoon. A rich purple carpet divided the space into two, and delicate golden chairs were set on either side. Supporting poles were covered in gold and white flowers, enormous floral arrangements stood at every corner, and suspended above the pulpit were large golden balloons, courtesy of Fred and George.

The guests were all mostly seated in place, and the low buzz of excited chatter swelled and ebbed rhythmically.

Hermione stood outside with Ron, the twins, and their so-called ‘cousin Barny’, (who was Harry in the guise of some unspecified plump and red-haired boy from the nearby village). They were in splits, all of them, as Fred and George told stories about their notorious Uncle Bilius... which was why Hermione jumped about a foot in the air and dropped her bag on the ground when a voice _extremely_ close to her ear said, “You look vunderful.”  
“Victor!” she gasped, after hastily picking up her bag, “I didn’t know you were – goodness – it’s lovely to see – how are you again?”  
Lord, she sounded like a silly fifteen year old. Victor did look good though… in that intense, distinguished way of his. In dapper dress robes and a newly cultivated beard, he was somehow taller; more imposing. But he smile he bestowed upon her was sweet. He took her hand and kissed it, and opened his mouth to speak when –

“How come you’re here?”  
Hermione gaped at Ron for his ill-timed and crusty interruption. He was awfully red, and scowling sullenly at Victor.  
Victor raised his eyebrows, “Fleur invited me.”  
Before Ron could say anything more, Barny (or, The Wizard Formally Known as Harry,) quickly offered to show Victor his seat, and rushed him inside the marquee.  
“What the hell, Ron?” Hermione demanded.  
“What?” he snapped, his ears in flames.  
“You were so rude! Why –”  
She stopped on account of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s arrival.  
“It’s time! It’s time!” Mrs. Weasley squealed, “Go sit down, children... the bride’s on her way!”  
And so they dutifully hurried down the aisle, (“ _Children_ , she says,” George muttered,) collecting Barny (or, The Wizard Formally Known as Harry,) on the way.

 

From her place in the second row, Hermione looked about her with a sense of disconnection – the excitement, the anticipation, the eager humming – none of it made sense to her.   
Bill and Charlie marched up to the pulpit, both looking extremely sharp in fitted black dress robes that looked like ankle length morning coats. Fred wolf-whistled, much to the delight of Fleur’s veela cousins.  
Suddenly, from nowhere and everywhere, music bloomed and the guests fell silent.

Fleur floated up the aisle, her hand daintily placed on her beaming father’s elbow, with Ginny and Gabrielle following behind in matching dresses and similar smiles. She looked... oh, to say she looked _beautiful_ , would’ve been extremely trite. She was faultless, she was exquisite, she was glowing. Her dress and jewellery were simple – the most ornamental thing on her was the tiara – but for once, surprisingly, it wasn’t her appearance that made her so breathtaking; it was the pure, incandescent joy on her face... in her stride... it radiated out of her and touched everyone watching.  
Hermione turned to look at Bill. He was gazing enraptured at his bride with shining eyes and a mile-wide grin. The scars on his face – all marks of distress and trauma – seemed to have melted away. There was nothing but untainted, absolute happiness in the space between the couple.  
And just like that, Hermione understood. The reason for that whole elaborate circus; for the fancy cutlery, for the expensive hors d'oeuvres and beverages, for _all_ the planning and nitpicking... it was obvious, really. It was for this exact moment: Bill and Fleur generating so much joy that all those lucky enough to be around were caught in the swell of it.  
Yes, there was a sodding war going on, and yes, people were dying. But still... look! Look at how effortlessly true bliss and deep love have empowered an entire room!  
It didn’t mean a lot; it meant _everything._

 

* * *

 

The sun had set, but the wedding reception was at its peak. Twinkling lamps hung from the golden canopy that the marquee had been transfigured into. The band was playing particularly energetic jazz numbers. Bill and Fleur were in the middle of the dance floor, twirling and giggling as though drunk on happiness (and copious amounts of champagne). Ginny was dancing with Lee Jordan, Ron was dancing with Gabrielle. Victor had found some veela-type to keep him company after Hermione had turned down a second dance with him. Hagrid, Charlie, and a Bob Hoskins lookalike were sitting on the floor in one corner, singing. Tonks was trying to pull Lupin onto the dance floor, but he shook his head adamantly. Then, Fred offered to dance with her instead, and laughing brightly, Tonks agreed. Lupin continued to stare into his glass of firewhiskey miserably. Leaning against the bar with a glass of gin and gillywater in her hand, Hermione felt a sort of kinship with him.

Her spirits had come crashing down as she imbibed more and more... well, spirits. Her feeling of detachment had returned, but now she also felt hollow and melancholy. She took a long sip and sighed; her eyes continued to skitter all around the throng dejectedly. She saw George disappear under a table with one of Fleur’s cousins. She watched as Ron towed Gabrielle across the crowd to get more cake. At a corner table, she saw Barny (or, The Wizard Formally Known as Harry,) talking to... of all people... Old Auntie Muriel and Elphias Doge. She thought she ought to go rescue him... maybe even wrangle a dance out of him... But no. Nothing could induce her to go anywhere near Muriel again.  
There was an outbreak of laughter from the dance floor, where Luna and her father were dancing utterly _ridiculously_. Hermione scowled. She’d tried no less than eight times to drag that insane girl aside to talk... but each and every time Luna had pulled away and initiated a conversation with the nearest person. Hermione was one drink away from casting her first _Imperio_...

“Hi.”  
With a bit of a jump, she turned to look the young man who’d sidled up next to her. He was dark haired and stocky, wearing a pleasant smile and clutching goblet of mead.  
“Hello,” Hermione replied curtly, hoping that the unspoken ‘please go away’ was clearly put across through her tone.  
“You look beautiful,” he went on, undeterred, “Would you care to dance?”  
“No thanks,” she gritted out through her teeth.  
The young man’s smile widened, “Don’t worry... I’m not on the pull. I’m actually here with my girlfriend.”  
“ _Really_ ,” Hermione drawled.  
“Yes, _really._ She’s right there,” he said and pointed. Hermione disinterestedly followed the line of his finger, and her eyes came to rest on a blonde girl in bright yellow robes...    
“Pshaw. She’s not your girlfriend.”  
“Excuse me?! Yes she is!”  
“That’s Luna Lovegood,” Hermione said, getting seriously angry, “I know for a _fact_ that she is NOT your girlfriend.”  
“Oh really?” He tilted his head down and eyed her meaningfully, “You’re sure, are you –”  
“Good grief, YE–”  
“– _Buddy_.”

Hermione’s entire body seized. Her hands suddenly began to shake, so she carefully placed her glass on the bar.  
“Oh my god,” she gasped.  
“In the flesh,” the man said cheerfully. Then he grinned, and he looked entirely wrong, but... _she knew that grin_.  
She launched herself at him, and he caught her tightly in his arms.  
“Oh my _fucking god_ ,” she breathed into his ear, “Theo. Theo. You’re here. _Theo_.”  
“Well, of course I’m here,” he laughed, “The moment Luna told me her father had gotten an invite, I insisted they take me along.” He pulled away, but kept his arms around her as he ran his eyes all over her face. “Merlin, it’s good to see you.”  
“Wish I could say the same,” Hermione quipped as best she could, (her fanatical grin wasn’t letting her speak clearly,) “Who are you supposed to be?”  
 “Some bloke,” Theo replied with a shrug, “Luna got his hair off the floor of a barber’s shop in the muggle village down the hill. Terribly unhygienic, yeah... but... desperate times and all that. Now. I’m going to ask you one more time... would you care to dance?”  
“I would love to. Absolutely.”  
He hauled her onto the dance floor and whirled her round and around, and around once more. He pulled her close and twirled her away. He picked her up by the waist and spun. Hermione was laughing breathlessly when she caught Luna’s eye over Theo’s shoulder. “ _Thank you_ ,” she mouthed, and Luna grinned before returning to the alien square dancing routine she had going with her father.

Theo made her dizzy through three songs, then led her, stumbling and giggling, back to the bar.  
“So,” he said after they’d got a drink each, “How are you?”  
“I am...” Hermione hedged, “...As expected.”  
“I see,” he pronounced with a raised brow, “And your parents...?”  
She breathed heavily out of her nose. “Safe.”  
“Good girl,” he said and squeezed her hand.  
“What about you?” Hermione asked, “How have you been?”  
“Er, as expected?” he ventured, “Wait no. Worse. Definitely worse. Hermione, I’m going crazy.”  
“Cabin fever?”  
“Not exactly,” he said with a scowl, “It’s fucking Xenophilius. He’s a madman. No listen, _believe me_. Luna’s quirks are adorable, right? His are outrageous. He hates me. He absolutely _loathes_ me.”  
“Oh, come on,” Hermione reasoned, “He’s probably just playing the part of the overprotective father...”  
“Yeah, see, if that was the case, he’d simply have warded Luna’s room to keep me out. Which he has done, by the way –”  
“Oh, you poor thing!”  
“– but he does _not_ have to make me spend the afternoon peeling and slicing those bloody awful dirigible plums, and then bake them into a pie and have me eat it for dinner every single day! And that Gurdyroot infusion! I spat it out the first time, so he’s punishing me by making me have a glass with every bloody meal. As if it isn’t bad enough that I have to scrounge around in the garden like a fucking niffler, digging the blasted things out! I also have to fish for Plimpies, keep out the Wrackspurts – which basically involves me batting at empty air for _hours_ , and.... Stop laughing, you monster!”  
Of course, Hermione did no such thing. “Oh, the Labours of Theodore...”  
“Far more than ten,” he grumbled, but then he brightened, “Luckily, the miserable sod has a weakness.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yes. He trusts Luna implicitly. So he hasn’t put any wards on _my_ room.”  
“Ah.”  
“Exactly. So she visits me every night.”  
“Lovely.”  
“It really is. We don’t sleep much.”  
“I’m sure you don’t.”  
“We spend a lot of time not sleeping.”  
“Yes, I get it...”  
“Not sleeping every night is doing me a lot of good.”  
“That’s nice.”  
“And Luna really does love _good_. I mean, really, really –”  
“ _Theo!_ ”  
He threw back his head and laughed. Hermione’s own lips quirked up reflexively at the sound. In her mind’s eye she could picture him as he ought to have been – thinner, taller, with his light brown hair falling into his fine blue eyes.  
“Oh, sweet Salazar, _darling_ ,” he chortled, “I’ve missed you.”  
“I’ve missed you too,” she said softly, “So much.”

He sipped his drink after the last vestiges of his amusement subsided, and adopted a more solemn tone.  
“When will you set off on your great, secretive adventure?”  
Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably, “Tomorrow.”  
“Fuck,” he muttered, “Potter’s here isn’t he? That tubby red-haired fellow...”  
“Huh? How’d you know?” she demanded in shock.  
“Luna told me.”  
“How did _she_ know?!”  
“It’s Luna,” he shrugged offhandedly, “She knows things. But anyway. Are you... well... are you prepared?”  
“Yes. I am – I think – I suppose I’ve thought of everything.”  
“I can believe that,” he said with a sigh, “Carelessness and cutting corners aren’t your style.”  
“No,” she agreed, wanting to say more comforting things but drawing nothing but blanks. Fortunately, that’s when Luna joined them, flushed and glinting with sweat. (The sunflowers in her hair were beginning to wilt, making Hermione wonder about the state of her lilacs...)  
Luna ordered herself a glass of sherry and leaned into Theo’s side as he put an arm around her.  
“Had fun, love?” he asked affectionately.  
“Oh yes,” she beamed, “Daddy is a wonderful dancer, isn’t he?”  
“Superlative,” Theo remarked dryly. Hermione grinned.  
“By the way, Hermione,” said Luna, “I’m sorry for ignoring you all evening. Theo wanted to surprise you.”  
“Please don’t apologise. It was a fantastic surprise. In fact,” Hermione bit her lip, “I should apologise for even _thinking_ about using the Imperius curse on you.”  
“Hermione Granger!” Theo admonished playfully.  
“Oh never mind,” Luna laughed calmly, “It wouldn’t have worked anyway. A gnome bit me this afternoon.”  
“Er... okay?” Hermione said, puzzled.  
“Gnome saliva is extremely beneficial! It makes you immune to the unforgivable curses and bestows the gift of many tongues.”  
“Many tongues, eh?” Theo murmured licentiously.  
_Don’t say anything,_ Hermione firmly told herself.

 

Just then, somebody shrieked, and Hermione jerked around in alarm. Something enormous and blazing fell through the canopy and landed smack-dab in the middle of the dance floor. All the revellers fell silent and gaped in unified astonishment at the silver light which turned out to be a patronus in the shape of a lithe and graceful lynx. Its mouth opened and Kingsley’s voice issued forth:  
“ _The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming._ ”

All hell broke loose.

The panic-stricken crowd turned wild, with people running around in shock, or screaming, or promptly disapparating. The protective enchantments around the burrow had been decimated.  
“ _Shit_ ,” Hermione cried. She rounded on Theo and Luna – “You need to get out. You need to leave –” Theo shouted... something, but she ignored him. “Shield charms. NOW. _Protego!_ ” she ordered, “Shit shit shit. Go! Theo, Luna, GO!”  
Guests were running around hither-thither like headless chickens. Tonks emerged from an especially dense huddle, barking orders at Bill, Charlie, and Hagrid.  
“Theo!” Hermione half-sobbed, “They can’t find you here. Hurry!”  
“But –”  
“Luna. Get him out of here. Find your father and go. GO.” She shoved them both, “I’ll be fine – I need to get to Harry and we’ll be out too – _Damn it_ – MOVE.”

And that’s when they appeared: Death Eaters – at least thirty of them. With perfect synchrony they raised their wands and let loose a violent flow of spells. There was madness, madness everywhere. Furniture flew all over the place, amid an outburst of explosions and lights and screams.  
Luna grabbed hold of Theo’s hand and ran towards her father at the other end of the floor.

 

* * *

 

She was one and they were three.

Three rancorous Death Eaters were attacking her with all they had and she could do nothing besides struggle to maintain her shield charm.  
“Not so tough now, are you, mudblood?” yelled one Death Eater – the woman from the night of Dumbledore’s murder. Hermione was pushed back brutally from the force of her curse.  
“ _Protego Totalum_ ,” she wheezed.

A little behind her and to the left was a large table that had been knocked over on its side, effectively forming a partition. If she could just duck behind it, she might be able to fend off the brutes......

Suddenly, from behind the table, three jets of light shot out and hit all three Death Eaters squarely in the chest, knocking them out cold. Overwhelmed with relief, Hermione took a moment to collect her breath before diving behind the table-screen.  
But her words of gratitude died in her throat. What came out instead was, “YOU!”  
Instantly, her wand was levelled at the young man before her. “You...” she spluttered, “What – YOU– _Wha_ –”  
“Is this how you thank someone for saving your life?” asked Draco Malfoy with his mouth twisted sardonically, “By stuttering and pointing your wand at them?”  
“ _Saving my_ – Go to hell!” she snarled.  
“Oh, put away your wand, Granger,” Malfoy commanded. He kept his own wand harmlessly at his side, pointing towards the ground. “You aren’t really going to do anything –”  
Hermione laughed humourlessly, “Is that what you think? I’m not going to make the same mistake twice, you arsehole.”  
Malfoy scoffed. “It wasn’t a fucking mistake, and you know it. The reason you let me go that night... the reason I saved your miserable hide just now... still holds.”  
“Save it, Malfoy. I think the _reason_ would prefer knowing where you are – even if you’re chained and shackled.”  
Malfoy smirked. It was _such_ an aggravatingly familiar expression that Hermione nearly hexed him there and then. “What makes you think he doesn’t already know?”   
That stumped her. She gaped at him and his smirk grew. “Wha – he – he –”  
“Stuttering again, Granger? Shit, you’re a dreadful conversationalist.”  
“I simply _don’t_ belie –”

A blur rushed into their tiny shelter and pinned Malfoy to the back of the table by this throat.  
Lupin.  
Hermione’s gasp of shock was lost under the livid growl that tore out of the older man.  
“You double-crossing little maggot. I _knew_ we shouldn’t have trusted you!”  
“GET OFF ME –”  
What was going on? Hermione stared at the two men in astonishment.  
Lupin’s grasp tightened. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Lull us into a false –”  
“Plan?” Malfoy choked out, “ _Plan?!_ D’you think ‘m allowed to make _plans_?! GERROFFME!”  
He kicked his leg out, catching Lupin in the shin and causing him to jump back with a howl of pain. Gingerly rubbing his reddened neck, Malfoy seethed, “There was no time to warn you, alright? Yaxley showed up with the news that they’d taken the Ministry, and _minutes_ later we were apparating here. _There was no time,_ you hear me?”  
“Liar!” Lupin roared.  
“I’m NOT fucking lying! Here –” Malfoy spat, shoving a piece of parchment into Lupin’s hand, “– a list of all raids and attacks intended for the next two months.”  
Glaring furiously, Lupin tucked the list inside his robes.  
“Quit frothing at the mouth, would you?” Malfoy snapped, “You know what they do to rabid dogs.”  
Hermione made a noise of deep indignation on Lupin’s behalf, which finally alerted him to her presence. “Hermione?” he started incredulously, “What are _you_ doing here? Where’s Harry?”

Oh dear god... Harry! What was wrong with her?

Muttering a stream of oaths, she tore out from behind the table and into the chaos. Her eyes darted all over the place, searching...  
She saw Ron attempting to stave off that same large blond Death Eater who’d gone berserk on the night of Dumbledore’s death. He was wearing Ron down, so without wasting a second, Hermione rushed forward crying, “ _Impedimenta!_ ”  
“Fuck,” Ron panted, “Bloody maniac. Thanks, Hermio –”  
“Where’s Harry?” Hermione urged, cutting him short.  
“Donno... I haven’t... THERE!”  
He was at a far corner, duelling two Death Eaters. Much to Hermione’s horror, his disguise was fading – as she watched, he seemed to get thinner... his hair was darkening...  
“Come on,” she yelled, grabbing Ron’s wrist and pulling him along. In a strangely serendipitous moment, that was exactly when Harry shook his opponents off and looked up...

At once, he ran towards them, cutting frantically through the crowd. They met in the middle of the dance floor, and Hermione grabbed onto his hand tightly. Her mind filled with the image of a wide street lined with electronic shops and glitzy nightclubs... a mishmash of architectural styles... a big blue sign that read _Tottenham Court Road Station_...  
She spun on the spot and vanished.

 

* * *

 

Getting attacked by Death Eaters in Central Bloody London: what a bizarre nightmare. And here she had believed they’d be relatively safe in a heavily populated muggle area. Hermione blew a strand of hair away from her face and glared at the dark-haired Death Eater sprawled on the floor. Dolohov – her old friend from the battle at the Ministry; the one who was responsible for the fading scar above her bellybutton.

The café where they’d taken sanctuary was in shambles.  
“Lock the door,” Harry said to her, “and Ron… turn out the lights.”  
She rushed to do as he said, glad that he was taking charge. She was on the brink of a meltdown… she had no idea where to go next.  
Ron used the Deluminator to extinguish the lights, and then whispered, “What the fuck are we going to do with them? Kill them? They’d kill us. They had a good go just now.”  
Dimly illuminated by the yellow light that streamed in from outside, Hermione could just make out his face – and it made her shudder. Harry, bless him, shook his head. “We just need to wipe their memories,” he said, “It’s better like that, it’ll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it’d be obvious we were here.”  
“You’re the boss,” said Ron flippantly, “But I’ve never done a Memory Charm.”  
Hermione muttered hoarsely, “I know the theory.”  
Taking in a gulp of air, she focused on the events of the last fifteen minutes and – “ _Obliviate._ ” When Dolohov’s eyes glazed over, she knew she had succeeded.  
Harry patted her on the back. “Brilliant! Take care of the other one and the waitress while Ron and I clear up.”  
She nodded and turned to the large blond Death Eater as Ron sputtered in dismay: “Clear up? _Why?_ ”    
“Don’t you think they might wonder what’s happened if they wake up and find themselves in a place that looks like it’s just been bombed?”  
“Oh right, yeah ...”  
“ _Obliviate,_ ” Hermione whispered, tuning them out.

  
When they’d taken care of everything, she leant her hip against a table, and looked askance at Harry. “How did they find us? How did they know where we were? You—you don’t think you’ve still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?”  
Ron promptly refuted that theory, “He can’t have. The Trace breaks at seventeen; that’s Wizarding law. You can’t put it on an adult.”  
“As far as you know,” Hermione countered, “What if the Death Eaters have found a way to put it on a seventeen-year-old?”  
“But Harry hasn’t been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours,” Ron argued, “Who’s supposed to have put a Trace back on him?”  
They both looked at Harry, and Hermione nearly groaned out loud. He had that typically tortured, self-loathing look on his face. “If I can’t use magic,” he said slowly, “and you can’t use magic near me, without us giving away our position–”  
She’d heard enough. “We’re NOT splitting up!”  
“We need a safe place to hide,” Ron reasoned, “Give us time to think things through.”  
“Grimmauld Place,” said Harry, simply.

And so it was.

 

* * *

 

The insalubrious old house looked exactly as Hermione remembered. She placed her bag on a dusty sofa, and waved her wand to set the rusty gas lamps aflame. She pulled the filthy curtains aside and peered cautiously at the street outside: it seemed deserted. She backed away and pointed her wand at the large fireplace, and conjured a fire sans the heat. The warm orangey tint that subsequently spread across the room somewhat lessened its dreadful drabness.

Harry was standing in front of the massive Black family tapestry, staring hard at Sirius’ name. Hermione swallowed, and looked apprehensively at Ron, who merely shrugged bleakly. Then, abrusbtly, his eyes widened, as he pointed at something behind her.  
Hermione spun around, and a tiny shriek tore out of her. As before, a bright slivery light zoomed into their presence, and gradually took on the form of...... a weasel.  
“That’s dad’s!” Ron exclaimed, and in a moment of insanity, Hermione wondered what Draco Malfoy would’ve said on finding out that Arthur Weasley’s patronus was actually, truly a _weasel._ She gave herself a solid shake just as Mr. Weasley’s voice projected out of the glowing animal:  
“ _Family is safe. Do not reply... we are being watched._ ”

The Patronus dissipated, and Ron emitted a choked whimper. “They’re alright,” he gasped, “They’re all safe!”  
She smiled widely at him, and he laughed, (“THEY’RE ALRIGHT!”) and hugged her.

But, alas, fucking shit, _as always_ , their jubilance was short-lived: Harry let out an agonised cry and fell down heavily on the sofa. A cloud of dust exploded all around him.  
“Harry!” Hermione shouted, “Harry! What is it?”  
He moaned, and clutched at his forehead.  
“Bugger!” Ron yelped, “It’s another vision, innit? What is it? What did you see?”  
Hermione stared between the two of them, flummoxed and worried. “What? A vision?! Your scar, again? What’s going on? I thought that connection had closed!”  
With his fingers pressed against his scar, Harry groaned. “It did, for a while. I – I think it’s started opening again whenever he loses control, that’s how it used to –”  
“But then you’ve got to close your mind–” Hermione was horrified, “–Harry  you have shut that connection down... use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember –”  
“Yeah, I do remember, thanks,” Harry spat, “I try. These fucking – these visions – they just come to me at the most random moments. I can’t – FUCK. Damn it. It hurts _like hell._ ”  
Hermione didn’t have the heart to berate him anymore. She fished a handkerchief out of her bag and cast a cooling charm on it. She perched on the arm of the sofa next to Harry, and pressed the cloth against his scar.  
“Thanks,” he sighed.  
“So, um...” Ron broached, “What did you see then?”  
Harry closed his eyes. “It was just a flood of rage at first. Burning hot rage. Then... a long room dimly lit room...” (Harry’s hand convulsed, and Hermione reinforced the cooling charm on her handkerchief,) “...that giant blond Death Eater – he’s called Rowle, by the way – was on the floor, thrashing and screaming, and I was... I mean, _Voldemort_ was... threatening to feed him to his snake for letting us escape again. There was another person in the room... Draco... and... and Voldemort forced him to torture Rowle...”  
“Oh.. _god,_ ” Hermione groaned.  
How awful. How sickening. And ghastly. And... And... And...  
_“Stuttering again, Granger? Shit, you’re a dreadful conversationalist.”_  
How utterly _wretched_.

“Oh come on, he _forced_ him?” Ron jeered dismissively, “It’s all exactly what that little shit willingly signed up for –”  
“He didn’t _willingly_ sign up for anything,” Hermione burst out before she could stop herself.  
Ron stared at her.  
“She’s right,” Harry seconded. His eyes were open now; the brilliant green streaked with reflected firelight, “You didn’t see him, Ron... he looked completely petrified. Voldemort told him that if he didn’t do it, he and his parents would face the consequences.”

 

There was a terrible weight inside Hermione’s chest. She jumped to her feet and collected her bag saying, “I need to get out of this bloody dress. I’ll – I’ll be right back...”  
She scarpered into the nearest bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her. Sitting on the edge of the large and garish bathtub, she rummaged around in her bag till her fingers closed around her old DA Galleon. Then, praying – to deities she didn’t believe in – that Luna still had hers at hand, Hermione altered the coin’s engraving: ‘ _Fine?’_  
No more than a minute later, the galleon burned hot.  
_‘All are fine’_.

She pressed her palm against her heart and breathed.  


 

* * *

 


	33. Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been nominated in three categories for the 2018 Enchanted Awards. My reaction was as follows: What?... then, Holy shit!... followed by, WHAT?!  
> The list of nominees is available on the Granger Enchanted Survivors 18+ page on Facebook, and voting's open till March 24. So if you'd like, you can... you know. Ahem. 
> 
> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed (and maybe somewhat decontextualised and fiddled with,) from DH.

 

There was a plate of stale biscuits before her, with a cup of cold tea to the side – both remained untouched. Hermione was doing what she always did when beleaguered: She was making a list.

Their first day in hiding at 12 Grimmauld Place had been, to say the least, utterly insane. _So here’s what happened_ , she summarised systematically and succinctly in her head:  
1\. Harry was being tormented by the idea that Dumbledore had sat mute and indifferent while his domineering mother had abused his squib sister, (based on a claim by the _oh so scrupulous_ Rita Skeeter).  
2\. R.A.B. stood for Regulus Arcturus Black. (Now that was a discovery that truly stunned her. Sirius’ so-called ‘evil brother’ – supposedly an irredeemable coward and ex-follower of Voldemort – turned out to be an unexpected hero. They didn’t know what it was that had caused him to turn against his master, but it was enough for him to sacrifice his life. And he hadn’t let Kreacher take the fall for him either. How could such a man, all things considered, be thought of as anything but brave? His family and upbringing had led him down a certain path, but he had eventually chosen to turn away. Not as soon and as easily as his brother, but still... Hermione’s mind jumped to Theo and Malfoy – a situation that could be similar... but wasn’t quite...)

“...literally _no food_ in the bloody house!”  
Harry and Ron stomped into the drawing room, shattering her train of thought. Ron looked supremely disgruntled, but perked up a trifle on spotting the plate of biscuits that Hermione wasn’t eating.  
“-choo up to?” he asked with a mouth full of crumbs.  
“Nothing,” she replied wearily.  
Harry was noticeably twitchy, and he strode over to the large window to peer outside. “Shouldn’t Kreacher be back by now? House-Elfs are supposed to be great at finding people...”  
“It’s Mundungus, mate,” said Ron smoothly, “He’s a good hider, yeah?”

Hermione clasped her hands together and sighed –  
3\. The locket, that is, the bloody _Horcrux_ , had been in their hands two years ago, and they’d tossed it aside carelessly. Now that crook Mundungus Fletcher had it. (Thinking of Kreacher’s horrible ordeal made her eyes sting, yet again, with tears. It was truly _sick_ the way...)

“Hey, Hermione? Hullo... more where that came from?”  
She glared balefully at Ron who was pointing at her cup. But then, Harry came and sat beside her, looking discouraged and jittery and everything else that characterised a person in desperate need for a spot of tea.  
So, she muttered, “Of course,” and fished a kettle, two cups, and a box of teabags out of her bag. 

 

* * *

 

One... Two... Three... Four days went by, and Kreacher did not return. Worry over that, mixed with the strain of their general situation and the gloomy atmosphere in the house had turned the three ‘best friends’ into bad-tempered, intolerant, and reluctant roommates who could scarcely stand to be around one another.

One the fifth night of Kreacher’s nonappearance, Harry was, true to form, glued to the drawing room window with his hands in tight fists by his sides, and Ron was stretched out on the moth-eaten sofa, twiddling his thumbs. Scribbling furiously into a notebook, Hermione sat on the floor translating _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ – mostly to keep her mind off Theo and how much she wished he was around. The text was littered with irregular runes, some that she couldn’t find anywhere in _Spellman’s Syllabary_ , and so she was forced to improvise. 

_ The Wizard and The Hopping ~~Pog~~ Pot  _

_There was once_ (deviation from the standard rune for ‘c’) _a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his ne ~~ar~~ ighbours. Rather than reveal the true _(single symbol used; similar to the Old Futhark rune for ‘truth’) _source of his power, he pretended that his potions, ?????, and antidotes_

  
 

“What’s wrong, Harry?”  
She dropped her pen at Ron’s exclamation, gazing up at the Chosen One’s choicest look of disquietude.  
“Death Eaters,” said Harry darkly, “Outside.”  
“Reckon they know we’re in here?” asked Ron while sitting up.   
Hermione nervously tapped her nail against the floor and mused, “I don’t think so... else they’d have sent Snape in after us, wouldn’t they? And Moody’s curse is preventing him from telling them how to get in... They’re probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry owns the house, after all.”  
“How do they—?” began Harry.  
“Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They’ll know Sirius left you the place.”  
With a low grunt, Harry stalked back to the window to keep vigil. Ron fell back on the sofa, and Hermione picked up her pen.

  
  
_sprang ~~ror~~ ~~rer~~ ready–made from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking ~~pog~~ pot. From myls _(i.e., miles) _around people came to him with their troubles, and the wizard was pleased to give his pot a_

  
  
The lights went out.  
Then they came back on.  
Ron was fiddling with the blasted Deluminator again.

  
  
_stir and put things right.  
This ~~wee belove~~ well-beloved wizard lived to a godly _ (goodly?) _age, then_

  
  
The lights went out.  
Then they came back on.

  
  
_died, leaving all his ?haytles_ (chattels?) _to his only son. This son was of a very different dispos ~~et~~ ition to his gentle father. Those who could no  _

  
  
The lights went out.  
Blind with rage, (and, yes, okay, the lack of illumination, too,) Hermione chucked her pen in the direction she thought Ron was. It landed with a thud somewhere embarrassingly close to her.  
“Will you stop it!” she yelled.  
“Sorry, sorry!” Ron’s voice called through the gloom, “I don’t know I’m doing it!”  
The lights came back on, and Hermione glowered at Ron’s sheepish expression. “You don’t know you’re doing it?!” she demanded in disbelief, “I know you’re remarkably thick, Ron, but how could you not notice the lights going on and off and –”  
“Oh, simmer down! I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?” Ron responded hotly.  
“Well,” Hermione spat, “can’t you find something useful to occupy yourself?”  
“What, like reading kids’ stories?”  
“Dumbledore left me this book –”  
“– and he left _me_ the Deluminator! Maybe I’m supposed to use it!”  
“I’m sure he didn’t intend for you to _use_ it to annoy the shit out of your friends!”  
“Well, maybe he did! You know, since I don’t have your natural talent for annoying people –”  

There was a loud CRASH from downstairs, and Hermione and Ron froze. They stared at each other in alarm for two-and-a-half seconds...  
They tore down the stairs, wands drawn, coming to an abrupt halt in the hall, where Mrs. Black’s portrait was raving, and Harry stood with his wand trained on a man whose identity was masked by a cloud of dust.  
“MUDBLOODS AND FILTH DISHONORING MY HOUSE!”  
Hermione skittered over to Harry’s side; her heart was in her throat. The mysterious man coughed, waved his hands about to clear the air, and said, “Hold your fire, it’s me, Remus!”  
The relief she felt was so enormous that she nearly laughed. _Oh thank goodness_. She pointed her wand at Walburga Black’s portrait and closed the curtains that kept her silent. 

 

* * *

 

They sat at one end of the long wooden table in the kitchen, sipping on warm butterbeer that Lupin had pulled out from under his cloak, and stared down at the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that he’d placed before them. The entire front page was taken up by a photograph of Harry, under the most inflammatory of headlines: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” said Lupin gently.  
Harry said nothing. He simply pushed the paper away and took a small sip of his beverage.  
Hermione seethed on his behalf; “So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too? But surely people realize what’s going on?”

Lupin shook his head tiredly. “The coup has been smooth and virtually silent. The official version of Scrimgeour’s murder is that he resigned; he has been replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse.  

“Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that Voldemort must be behind it. But that’s the point: They whisper. They daren’t confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case their suspicions are true and their families are targeted.”

“And this dramatic change in Ministry policy involves warning the Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?” Harry asked bitterly.

“That’s certainly part of it,” Lupin replied, “and it is a masterstroke. Now that Dumbledore is dead, you – the Boy Who Lived – were sure to be the symbol and rallying point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hero’s death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many who would have defended you. Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against muggleborns. Look at page two,” he said, gesturing towards the _Prophet_.

With anticipatory disgust, Hermione turned the page. “ _Muggleborn Register_ ,” she read aloud, and the more she read, the higher her voice got. It reached a fevered pitch at phrases like ‘ _the so-called muggleborn is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force_ ’, and ‘ _the Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power_ ’.  
“People won’t let this happen,” Ron said questioningly.  
“It _is_ happening, Ron,’ said Lupin, “Muggleborns are being rounded up as we speak.”  
  
And so, Hermione deduced, she would have had to be on the run even if she hadn’t chosen to stick with Harry.   
“It’s ...it’s ...” Harry stuttered, face red and eyes blazing.  
 “I know.” Lupin stated gloomily.

 

Hermione used the spell of silence that followed to steel herself to broach a rather precarious subject. She hadn’t said a word about it to Harry or Ron, since tempers had been flying high of late, but with Lupin here... well, she just had to know.  
“Proffes – ahem, pardon me, Remus... What is going on with Draco Malfoy?”  
To her right, Ron choked on his butterbeer, and broke into a loud bout of coughing. To her left, Harry froze, and stared at her in discombobulation. Hermione, however, kept her eyes locked on Lupin, who, with a look of great resignation, said, “I was wondering when you’d bring that up.”  
“Draco _Malfoy_?!” Ron splutter, “What the hell?”  
Hermione sighed, and at long last, told the tale about her run-in with Malfoy at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and his subsequent spat with Lupin that she witnessed.  
“What the _hell_ ,” Ron said again, once she had finished.  
Lupid chugged the final dregs of his butterbeer, set the bottle down on the table rather loudly, and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “He came to us on the night of Tonks and my wedding. Genius move on his part, to show up at Andromeda’s – no matter what the family history, she would never turn her nephew away. I was all for handing him over to Mad-Eye, but she insisted he be allowed to explain himself. And for the first time in my life, I witnessed Tonks agreeing with her mother.  
“First thing, he wanted to know where Theodore Nott was. Of course, I told him nothing until he first made his intentions clear... So he told us that Dumbledore had offered him sanctuary, but... um... had unfortunately died before he could accept –”  
“And whose sodding fault was that?” Ron spat.  
“He said,” Lupin continued, “That he wanted to take up that offer... that he would switch sides and help out. Of course, I didn’t believe a word he was saying, so he offered to drink Veritaserum, if necessary –”  
“He wasn’t lying,” Harry muttered, “I was there, remember? Dumbledore _did_ offer, and he _was_ going to accept...”  
“Well, yes,” Lupin concurred, “The Veritaserum confirmed as much. When we asked him what his terms were, he demanded again to know the whereabouts of Nott. But then, he declined to go into hiding with him – said he couldn’t leave his parents behind. Bear in mind, I’m giving you a _highly_ sanitised version of what transpired; that boy is a smartarse reprobate, and I quite nearly rung his neck.”  
“You should’ve,” Ron grumbled, and Hermione, who was completely riveted by Lupin’s account, shushed him impatiently.  
“So then what happened?” Harry prodded.  
“Well, he said he’d play the spy – pass information about Death Eater plots and plans –” (Lupin paused to acknowledge Hermione’s surprised snicker of approval at his phrasing,) “–  and in return, we would have to swear not to harm either of his parents, and, when...and if... the time for sentencing comes –”  
“NO,” Ron exploded, “You’re JOKING. He wants to be let off?”  
“Him and his mother, yes. I told him that there was no way Lucius Malfoy could dodge punishment, so he demanded leniency in his case –”  
“That’s just... oh _wow_... batshit insane!” Ron shouted, “Leniency for Lucius Malfoy?! _NO_ punishment for his arsehole son? He’s a murderer!”  
“He isn’t a murderer –” Hermione reasoned timidly.  
“Bloody close to one though!”

“Ron,” Lupin called calmly, “His information has proved to be true and has helped us deflect some half a dozen Death Eater attacks – one of them, Hermione, being on your parents’ neighbourhood.”  
Hermione shuddered... _dreadfully_... but Ron was not deterred.  
“All that’s well and good,” he growled, “But he still fucking tried to kill people –”  
“Ron –”  
“He tried to kill ME!” Ron turned his eyes, burning with fury and betrayal towards Hermione, “I almost died, thanks to him. Don’t you care about that? Shouldn’t he be punished for that?”  
Hermione let out a low whimper, not knowing at all how to answer him. Still, she tried: “Ron, it was an accident –”  
“An _accident_ ,” he hollered, “That’s all? I could’ve died, and you’re brushing it off as an accident?!”  
“Harry nearly killed Malfoy, too! This whole... _thing_... is a mess...”  
Next to her, she felt Harry shift uncomfortably. Ron’s face twisted with contempt. “I don’t believe this.” He turned away from Hermione in disgust, and rounded on Lupin, “How... HOW... could you agree to this? How could _you_?”  
“I told you, his information proved –”  
“No. I mean before all that. How could you agree?!”  
Suddenly, Lupin looked tired. His greying hair seemed to wilt, and a shadow passed over him. He looked crushingly sad. “He’s Sirius’ cousin. His... his whole demeanour... his eyes...” he broke off with a devastated sigh.  
 “For fuck’s _sake_ ,” Ron roared. He jumped out of his seat and stormed out of the kitchen.  
  
Nobody spoke for a long time. Eventually, Lupin tentatively asked, “Are you okay with this, Harry?”  
Harry shrugged apathetically. “It’s what Dumbledore wanted. And turns out, Dumbledore wasn’t a very good person at seventeen, either... so yeah, I’m all for redemption.”  
“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “You know the _Prophet_ is being controlled by Death Eaters; you can’t believe what –”  
“Right,” he cut in shortly, and got to his feet, “I’m going to check on Ron.”  
  
And that left Hermione with Lupin who continued to look completely depressed.

“Remus,” she whispered, and he started.  
Clearing his throat, he broached, “I presume you still can’t confide in me what your mission is?”   
“I can’t. Sorry.”  
“I thought you’d say that,” said Lupin despondently. “But I could still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to.”  
Hermione felt her face pull into a frown as she considered him confoundedly. “But what about Tonks?”  
“What about her?” Lupin raised his brows.  
“Well,” she said hesitatingly, “you’re married; how does she feel about you going away with us?”  
The tone with which he replied sent a shiver down her spine: “Tonks will be perfectly safe,” he said coldly, “She’ll be at her parents’ house.”  
“Remus... is everything all right ...you know...between you and–”  
“Everything is fine, thank you,” he snapped acerbically.  
Her face burned, and she stared diligently at her knee, even as she itched to squirm –  
“Tonks is going to have a baby.”  
– Her head snapped up to gape at Lupin. “Oh, how wonderful!” she cried.  
Lupin smiled tightly, as though it pained him to do so, and then – “So... do you think Harry will accept my offer?” On seeing Hermione’s look of astonishment, he closed his eyes. “I-I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since. She... the child... they deserve better than me.”

 

It struck her like a flash of lightening: Why he had accepted Malfoy’s deal... Why he was so morbidly unhappy... Why he could bring himself to leave Tonks...  
She’d never had him to begin with. Lupin belonged to a dead man, and... And Hermione’s heart broke for all the players stuck in such an awful tragedy. But before she could say anything, Harry’s rough voice erupted from the doorway: “I see. So you’re just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?”

  
The scene that followed involved a lot of livid yelling and spiteful words ( _coward_... _bastard_...). Hermione was barely aware of what was being said, and desperate to restore peace, she threw herself between the raving men. It came to an end when Lupin charged out of the house in a towering rage, eyes full of hurt.

  
“Harry!” Hermione keened, “How could you?”  
“It was easy,” he spat, shaking with anger, “Don’t look at me like that!”  
Ron, it appeared, had been drawn back downstairs by the hubbub, and he barked, “You shouldn’t have said that stuff to Lupin.”  
“Oh shut up. He had it coming to him,” Harry snapped, “Parents shouldn’t leave their kids unless – unless they’ve got to.”  
Pity curdled in Hermione’s gut. “Harry—” she whispered, reaching out to touch him, but he shrugged her hand off and stomped away to stare into the fire grate. Ron turned his back on both of them and began rifling through the pantry.  
Hermione sat down again, keeping her eyes on the ground.

The three ‘best friends’ stewed in silence and resentment.

 

* * *

  
The silence rang on for two more days… And it was agony.

One night, not being able to keep it together, Hermione locked herself up in the loo and cried. She clutched her DA Galleon in her hand, wanting so badly to send a message, just so she had someone to communicate with. Maybe Luna would give her Galleon to Theo, and even _one word_ from him would be a boon.

But then, there was a loud _crack_ from outside, and on running pell-mell to the kitchen, she found that Kreacher had returned, with a frenzied Mundungus in tow.  
And with that, suddenly, they had everything in the world to talk about.

 

* * *

 

Something had fissured, irrevocably, between Ron and her. While pieces of her feelings for him had been falling away all year, Ron had suffered a single moment of disenchantment. Ever since the night of Lupin’s disastrous visit, there were moments when she’d catch him watching at her in a way that made her skin crawl. He was amiable enough otherwise, as the three of them got involved in preparing for operation _Trounce the Toad_ , but ever so often, he’d lash out at her with jibes more poisonous than ever before, and as a result of which, Hermione was the one who’d volunteer to watch the Ministry entrance most often.

She apparated back to the doorstep of Grimmauld place just as the sun had begun to set, careful to stay hidden under the invisibility cloak; there were four menacing Death Eaters on the street.  
Her co-conspirators were seated at the now disconcertingly spotless kitchen table, pouring over their plan and the bits of Intel they had collected thus far, while munching on some scrumptious walnut cake.  
“Everything okay?” Harry asked as she slipped tiredly into a chair.  
“Yes, I – oh, thank you, Kreacher!” she gushed, eying the slice of cake he’d placed in front of her. Kreacher grunted, which was a marked improvement on his usual _oh no, the mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, doom, gloom, kaboom_ reaction. “Anyway,” Hermione soldiered on, “I know where Umbridge’s office is. I overheard that big, bearded man telling his friend, ‘ _I’ll be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me_ ,’... So round here, most probably.” She marked a tentative ‘x’ on their roughly drawn map.  
“That’s great!” Harry cheered, “Now we just need to figure out a way in...”

Over the past two weeks, they’d learned that nobody, (save for the most senior officials,) was allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network. Apparating in and out of the Ministry had been banned. The only way in was by using newly issued tokens. They had, maybe, _possibly_ , identified three people who took the same route to the Ministry every day...

Unlike Kreacher’s excellent cake, their scheme was disturbingly half-baked. 

 

* * *

 

Three days later, after Hermione had spent six hours crouched in front of the Ministry, she decided to throw caution to the wind, and just walk.  
She pulled the cloak tightly around her and ambulated down Whitehall, breathing in the cool evening air, and pensively watching the traffic rush by.  
There were a surprising number of people out that evening, and as she neared St. James’s Park, the crowd thickened. She looked about her in surprise; many people appeared to be crying, and nearly everybody was holding flowers.

Utterly perplexed, Hermione dived deeper into the swarm, hoping to find her way to the epicentre..........

 

*

 

It was two hours after dark when she finally made it back to Grimmauld place.  
“Where the _hell_ were you?” Ron demanded, but Hermione held up her hand pleadingly.  
“Kreacher,” she whispered, “Would there be any... um... firewhiskey in the house?”  
Not looking directly at her, the House-Elf nodded, and vanished. He rematerialised a second later with a bottle of Ogden’s Old, and three glasses.  

It was only after she’d had taken a couple of brisk sips that Hermione turned to her two anxious friends and said, “Princess Diana died.”  
“Who?” said Ron unsurprisingly.  
Harry’s forehead creased with worry, “Was it Death Ea–”  
“No,” Hermione said, “Car crash in Paris.”  
“Oh,” Harry mumbled.

Hermione stared at the bright amber liquid in her glass while Harry (ineptly) told Ron about the monarchy.  Somehow, holed up in that dingy house, she’d become myopic. She’d forgotten that while the British magical community was paralyzed, the rest of the world was carrying on. Princesses were dying, people were mourning. In some other part of the world, people must’ve had a cause for celebration. Children were being born. The sun was rising in Japan.  
She wondered what dentists in Australia were up to. 

 

* * *

 

Another three days later, Harry returned with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , from which they learned that Snape had been appointed the new Headmaster of Hogwarts, and that attendance was mandatory. 

Hermione shot up the stairs immediately, (secretly applauding her presence of mind,) to shove Phineas Nigellus’ portrait into her trusted beaded bag. When she returned, the boys were quiet and sombre, and she knew that they were thinking about the same person as she was – Ginny.

“I think we should do it tomorrow,” Harry declared softly, but firmly. 

 

* * *

 

She would never get used to inhabiting someone else’s body. Mafalda Hopkirk was not much larger than her, but she definitely had a touch of rheumatoid arthritis. The pointy kitten heels weren’t helping. They click-clacked with every step she took, trailing behind Dolores Umbridge down to the Ministry court chambers. Hermione-as-Mafalda felt an urge to laugh hysterically. God, but her life was absurd.  

However, that untimely urge left her the moment they stepped into the passage outside the courtrooms. It was brimming with dementors. She felt so terribly cold... until Umbridge snapped her fingers, and the whole swarm of black-cloaked soul-suckers disappeared into the other end of the hall.  
“This way, Mafalda,” Umbridge trilled. She patted the hideous velvet bow sitting on her head, and led them into a room to the left of the passageway.

It was a small room with a high rounded ceiling, like a giant bell jar. A fresh assault of despair alerted Hermione-as-Mafalda to the presence of more dementors here, on a raised podium but the wall. She followed Umbridge to a bench behind a banister, where a self-important looking man was already seated.  
“Morning Yaxley,” Umbridge sang, “I’ve got Mafalda along for record keeping.” She then proceeded to summon a patronus (a silver Persian cat) and instructed it to pace before the banister. Instantly, the air around them warmed.

The “trials” Hermione-as-Mafalda witnessed were worse than she’d ever imagined. This was the build-up to a holocaust. She could barely keep herself from screaming in outrage, from hexing the two depraved monsters next to her. She needed to escape... And she needed to help out as many muggle-borns as possible...

“No, no! I’m a half-blood; I’m a half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he was, look him up! Arkie Alderton… he’s a well-known broomstick designer! Look him up, I tell you—get your hands off me, get your hands off—”

Hermione-as-Mafalda bit the insides of her cheeks as Jimmy Alderton was dragged away by the dementors. It was good that she was so adept at taking notes, because she was hardly focusing on what she was writing.  

“Next!” Umbridge called out, “Mary Cattermole.”  
_Oh fuck._ Hermione-as-Mafalda blinked in horror at the slim, petrified woman who’d just sat down on the lone chair in the middle of the room.  
“You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?” Umbridge asked authoritatively.    
Mrs. Cattermole nodded meekly.  
“Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?”  
Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears. “I don’t know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!”  
 Hermione-as-Mafalda’s hand was shaking. If they had just waited a _little_ longer, they might’ve found someone else for Ron to impersonate...  
“Mother to Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?” Umbridge continued ruthlessly.    
“They’re frightened,” wailed Mrs. Cattermole, “They think I might not come home–”  
“Spare us,” Yaxley sneered, “The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies.”

Okay, she absolutely _had to_ help this woman... but what could she do? It was two against one, not to mention the army of dementors outside, and the entire ministry above...  
Her eyes darted to the door... perhaps she could use a Decoy Detonator... cast a quick patronus...  
 “I’m behind you,” came a whisper from behind her.  
Hermione-as-Mafalda’s hands flew up in the air. Her bottle of ink tipped over. She gasped in alarm. But after all that came immense relief – she knew that voice belonged to Harry-as-Runcorn.  
_Thank heavens.  
_ And luckily, Umbridge and Yaxley were too busy interrogating to notice her little accident. Now, all she had to do was wait... 

 

* * *

 

They were sprinting across the Atrium like madmen; Yaxley and his vengeful entourage hot on their tail. 

“Come on!” Harry-as-Runcorn bellowed. His abnormally hand was in hers, slick with sweat, and they dived into the closest fireplace.  
They were tossed, a moment later, out of a toilet, and outside the cubicle, they were reunited with Ron-as-Cattermole, trying to get away from his supposed wife.  
“Reg, I don’t understand—”  
“Let go, I’m not your husband, you’ve got to go home!”

“LET’S GO,” Harry-as-Runcorn yelled, over the noise of multiple cubicle doors crashing open. Hermione-as-Malfalda felt his fingers tighten around her, and he disapparated, landing them squarely in front of 12, Grimmauld Place.  
No sooner did they land, than yet another clamour arose. Death Eaters – one, two, three, _shit_ , too many of them – “ _Incarcer–”_  
She gripped Harry’s hand, focused on the first place that popped into her head, and spun.

 

* * *

 


	34. Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. In case you, like Hermione, (and me,) miss Theo, I've made a scribbly little drawing of the two of them:  
> https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=127263334782985&set=a.127264148116237.1073741829.100024979574736&type=3&theater
> 
> This chapter contains many snippets of dialogue "borrowed" from DH. I've done my best to give you a whole new perspective.

...  
"What… What's happened to him?"  
"Splinched. Quickly, in my bag, there's a small bottle labelled 'Essence of Dittany'–"  
"Bag – right –"  
"He's fainted...! Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are shaking..."

 

*

 

"Why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?"  
"I don't think we're going to be able to go back there."  
"What d'you –?"  
"As we disapparated, Yaxley and a couple of other Death Eaters caught hold of me and I couldn't get rid of them… they were still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then – well, they were going to attack, so I brought us here instead."  
"But then, where are they? Hang on... You don't mean they're at Grimmauld Place? They can't get in there?"  
"I think they can. They got inside the Fidelius Charm's protection. Since Dumbledore died, we're the Secret-Keepers… Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"  
"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault! If anything, it was mine..."

 

* * *

 

The air before Hermione's wand hazed and shimmered with magic. " _Salvio Hexia... Protego Totalum ...Repello Muggletum... Muffliato..._ " she murmured, as she walked in a rough circle around the small clearing.

Harry was busy setting up their tent, and Ron remained sprawled on the forest floor, winded and in pain, the wound on his arm being the only part of his skin that had some colour.  
She could hardly believe that this was the same place that, three years ago, had housed a quidditch stadium large enough to accommodate a hundred thousand people. It was also the place where she'd seen what the Death Eaters were capable of for the first time. It seemed that those woods were destined to induce a rush of adrenaline, be it from excitement, or terror, or the uncontainable anxiety of being on the run.

With a final " _Cave Imunicium,_ " she turned to the boys. "That's as much as I can do," she told them, nervously tapping her wand against her knee, "At the very least, we should know if they're coming. I can't guarantee it will keep out Vol–"  
"Don't say the name!" Ron cut in severely, sitting up a touch and looking fierce. "I'm... sorry," he added, somewhat diffidently, "but it feels like a – a jinx or something. Can't we call him You-Know-Who – please?"  
Harry's eyes darted towards Hermione, before settling on Ron in bewilderment. "Dumbledore said fear of a name –"  
"In case you hadn't noticed, _mate_ ," Ron retorted impatiently, "calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore much good in the end. Just – just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?"  
" _Respect_?" Harry sputtered, "What the –"  
But then he decided to heed the cautionary look Hermione aimed at him.

She blessed him a hundred times as they lugged Ron into the musty tent; she absolutely could _not_ endure any more days of bitter brooding. They gently helped Ron down onto the lower berth of a bunk bed, where he immediately fell against the pillows with a groan of pain.  
Desperately wanting to make things better, and adhering to the tactic her Grandmother swore by, Hermione muttered, "I'll make some tea," and rushed into the tiny attached kitchen. From there, she could hear Harry and Ron fretting over the possible fate of the Cattermoles, and she let herself hope that henceforth, the tears in their rapport would begin to mend.

 

* * *

 

Why had she forgotten what the omniscient ' _they'_ said about speaking too soon?

 

* * *

 

_It was among her most favourite places: Hareshaw Linn.  
When she was eight, her parents and she had trekked over to see the gorgeous waterfalls, awed by the gushing, frothy cascades... by the fern green, and the jade green, and the flickers of deep olive green and emerald green... _

_It was where she was now, sat on a rock, marvelling at the contrast between the streams of silvery water and the raw-umber rocks they rushed down._   
_"Oh!" Luna cried standing by the edge of a brook, "It's an Augurey!" She pointed to a distant tree, "If it sings, one of us is doomed to die."_   
_"That's an old myth, Luna," Hermione said patiently, but Luna just gave her an 'oh-you-naive-child' look._   
_"I think I could stay here forever," Theo sighed, suddenly draped across a carpet of moss near Hermione's rock._   
_"Why don't we?" Luna smiled, walking over to curl into Theo's side._   
_"Indeed, why don't we?" Theo said, throwing an arm around her._

_Hermione blinked at them, a bit disorientated. "But..." she mumbled, "The war..."  
"If you're talking about your unrelenting war against your hair, Herms, that will never end," Ginny said with a mischievous grin, walking out from behind a tree.  
"No... Um. No... I mean... the war... Voldemort..."  
"Stuttering again, Granger? Shit, you're a dreadful conversationalist." _  
_She jumped, and whipped her head to the other side. Malfoy, it appeared, was sharing her rock-seat. He smirked at her burgeoning confusion; his pale gold hair was being scattered this way and that by the wind._  
_"What?" she shook her head to settle her thoughts, "No... this isn't... Harry and Ron... the tent..."_  
 _"Do shut up," Malfoy suggested, "Don't try talking – it's clearly beyond your capabilities. Here, have an apple. Go on."_  
 _He held a bright, blood-red one out to her, a single eyebrow arched in challenge, and she looked from his face to the apple... and back to his face..._

 

"AHHHHH!"  
Hermione's eyes flew open in alarm, and the book on her lap fell to the floor with a thud. She glanced, wide-eyed, at Ron who was attempting to sit up in his bed.  
"Harry...!" he exclaimed, "Outside!"  
She charged out, nearly tripping on the way, and found her tormented friend slumped on the forest floor, alternatively twitching, muttering, and crying out.  
"Harry!" She knelt by his side, shaking him desperately. He clearly was back in Voldemort's head, and she needed to bring him back. Shit, she –  
" _Harry!_ " she yelled.

He woke up with a gasp. At first, he stared up at her with fright and mystification on his face, but little by little recognition dawned, and he sat up in a hurry.  
"Dream," he stuttered promptly, "Must've dozed off, sorry."  
Hermione's worry turned into anger at the barefaced lie. "I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol–"  
From within the tent came an infuriated shout: "Don't say his name!"  
"Fuck – _Fine_ ," Hermione growled, "You-Know-Who's mind, then!"  
Harry's own eyes flashed with irritation. "I didn't mean for it to happen!" he protested vehemently, "It was a bloody dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?"  
Hermione's felt herself flush deeply, but she persisted, "If you just learned to apply Occlumency –"  
"He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione," Harry rushed out, cutting her short, "and I think he's killed him... but before he killed him he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw—"  
Since one good turn deserved another, she cut him short too. "I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep."  
"I can finish the watch!" he objected indignantly.  
"No," Hermione snapped dismissively, "You're obviously exhausted. Go and lie down."

So he went, with a parting vituperative glare. Hermione was sure that he and Ron would have a ball dissecting his "dream," (a "dream" she was nearly sure was another of Voldemort's - successful - attempts to derail and distract Harry).  
And she – alone in the dark with nothing but shadowy trees before her – felt herself sink into a deep hole of isolation, where all there was to do was gaze dully at the blue-black, and the grey-black, and the flickers of deep charry black and sooty black...

 

* * *

 

The very next morning, they packed up and apparated to the outskirts of the town of Nantwich. Ron claimed he didn't particularly care where they camped, as long as it was near enough to civilisation, so that they might get something to eat.

Hermione repeated the same cycle of protective enchantments, their tent was set up once more, and then Harry wrapped himself up in his Invisibility Cloak and went off in search for provisions.

To bide the time till he returned, Hermione plunged back into ' _The Wizard and The Hopping Pot_ '. She was getting better at deciphering the runes, and it wasn't long before she reached the end:

 _  
But from that day_ _forward, the wizard helped the villagers like his father before him, lest the pot cast off its slipper, and begin to hop once more._

  
Well, wasn't that precious. Was Dumbledore trying to teach her tolerance towards Muggles? If she had but one failing, it was certainly her prejudice, right? With a soft scoff, Hermione turned the page... and was confronted by an interleaf that was crammed with writing. The words were – thankfully – in English, and written in brilliant purple ink. ...Notes! _Dumbledore's_ notes!  
Brimming with excitement, Hermione read; it was a fascinating history of the tale, and how it altered as Wizardkind's opinions of muggles changed.  
She was just about to get started on ' _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ ', when Harry stumbled, panting and wheezing, into the tent.  
"Dementors," he breathed, and collapsed into the nearest armchair.  
Ron looked profoundly aggrieved, and whined pitifully, "But you can make a brilliant Patronus!"  
"I couldn't ...make one," Harry gasped, "Wouldn't... come..."  
"So we still haven't got any food," Ron grumbled.  
"Shut up," Hermione told him, "Harry, what happened? Why do you think you couldn't make your Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday..."  
"I don't know," he replied, looking chagrined.  
Then there was an almighty _clatter_ of wood on floor as Ron kicked a small side table. She gaped at him in absolute disbelief – what sort of imbecilic _child_ had he turned into?  
"What?" he roared, "I'm starving! All I've had since I bled half to death is a couple of toadstools!"  
Harry immediately sprang to counter-attack; "You go and fight your way through the dementors, then!"  
"I would, but my arm's in a bloody sling, in case you hadn't noticed!"  
"That's convenient."  
(Oh _god_ , Hermione groaned. A testosterone-fuelled showdown. Harry hadn't been this touchy since fifth-year when...)  
"And what the _fuck_ is that supposed to –?"  
"Of course!" she exclaimed, jumping onto her feet. "Harry," she said, rushing over to his side, "give me the locket! Come on!" Harry stared at her blankly, and she snapped her fingers in front of his face. "The Horcrux, Harry, you're still wearing it!" And when he finally relinquished the locket she asked, "Better?"  
"Yeah, loads better!" Harry said in wonder.  
Cautiously, she put forth her next question – "You don't think you've been possessed, do you?"  
"What? No!" he averred immediately, "I remember everything we've done while I've been wearing it. I wouldn't know what I'd done if I'd been possessed, yeah? Ginny told me there were times when she couldn't remember anything."  
Hermione looked closely at the chunky adornment, and just the notion of what it was... and that it was _in her hand_... made her shiver. "Well," she mulled, "maybe we ought not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent."  
"We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around," Harry said decisively, "If we lose it, if it gets stolen–"  
"Oh, all right, all right."  
Without giving too much thought to what she was doing, Hermione set the locked around her neck and tucked in under her shirt. "We'll take turns wearing it, okay? So nobody keeps it on for too long."  
"Great," Ron resurfaced, just as prickly as before. "And now we've sorted that out, can we _please_ get some sodding food?"  
" _Fine_ ," Hermione relented, "but we'll go somewhere else to find it. There's no point staying where we know dementors are swooping around."

 

* * *

 

They were camped in the Hexamshire moors, and it was Hermione's turn to keep guard outside the tent. She looked at her watch – eleven fifty-eight PM.  
The flatlands seemed to stretch for billions of miles, and the moon was full. It was the sort of place where Macbeth's witches may congregate when storm clouds gathered, or where a Highwayman may come riding... _riding, riding_...  
There was a rustling sound from within a nearby shrub, and a snake darted out. It slithered across the plains without looking her way. A gust of cool wind swept by, gently caressing her face. She looked at her watch – midnight.  
She was officially an adult in both the worlds she inhabited.

She wondered what this day might have been like had the war not befallen them. She'd be at Hogwarts... in the Gryffindor common room with Harry, Ron, Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus. Maybe she'd have mended fences with Parvati and Lavender too. They've have all gotten her food from Hogsmeade, and they'd have had a small party.  
The next morning, the parcel from home would've arrived, along with a long letter, ("... _would you please STOP growing up, my darling? ...don't listen to your father, Hermione; have a wonderful day..._ ").  
Theo had promised her a unicorn, hadn't he?  
Fred and George would've sent her something mad and (as much as it would pain her to admit,) ingenious.  
Mrs. Weasley would've knitted her something.  
Professor McGonagall would've stealthily handed her a parcel, (without a doubt some interesting book on her subject,) after class...

Another nippy breeze wafted across the empty moorland. Hermione jerked oddly when she felt something burn against her thigh. She stuck her hand into her pocket and pulled out the old DA Galleon, and printed on its facade was: ' _Happy birthday buddy_.'  
She was crying before she'd even fully understood what she'd read. Clutching the coin to her heart, she took in a dozen shuddering breaths, overwhelmed by that strange feeling of happy sadness that had all the potency of a heart attack.

She replied: ' _U O me a unicorn_.'

A minute later: ' _How bout a Wrackspurt?'_

_'Nothing Invisible, prat.'  
_

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Harry asked her if Vol – ( _"DIDN'T I ASK YOU TO STOP SAYING THAT?" "FINE, YOU-KNOW-WHO THEN!"_ ) could have hidden a Horcrux in Albania, where he'd spent his years of exile.

"Yeah, let's go to Albania," Ron snarked, "Shouldn't take more than an afternoon to search an entire country."  
Hermione ignored him. "There can't be anything there," she said to Harry, "He'd already made five of his Horcruxes before he went into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth. We know the snake's not in Albania, it's usually with Vol—"  
" _Oi!_ "  
"For _god's sake_! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who – happy?"  
"Not particularly." Ron scowled into the distance. "So where next?"

 

* * *

 

They were camped in Epping Forest, under a large oak tree. It was early in the evening, Harry was keeping watch, and Hermione once again curled up with _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ She couldn't focus. Ron was sitting across from her bunk, silently glowering at her.

"What is it, Ron?" she asked tersely.  
"Do you reckon Harry has _any_ idea what he's doing?"  
Hermione put away the book with a sigh. "Look," she whispered, glancing nervously at the entrance of the tent, " _None_ of us have any –"  
"Oh, stop that!" Ron snapped loudly, and she quickly cast a wandless _muffliato_ around them, "Stop fucking _coddling_ him. He's completely clueless, and he's dragging us around on leashes like we're pathetic little puppies."  
"He's... he's doing his best, Ron..."  
"WELL THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH."  
Hermione clenched her fists. She wanted to _punch_ him. She wanted to douse him in cold – freezing cold – water. "What do you want me to say?"  
Ron sneered, "For starters, maybe you could bloody well admit that you thought he knew what he was doing! That Dumbledore had actually told him... _something_... that would justify dragging us –"  
"He isn't _dragging_ us anywhere! We volunteered! We –"  
"YES, because we thought he had a plan. How long are we supposed to bugger around like this?"

Hermione stood up and walked away.  
"HEY? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"  
"To get food," she replied coldly.

 

* * *

 

Under the invisibility cloak, Hermione apparated to a small alley in Essex. She crept down a sparsely populated street till she found a convenience store, which she entered smoothly alongside an elderly couple.

Once inside, she went straight to the loo so that she could remove the cloak without scaring the life out of unsuspecting bystanders. Yes, she was well aware that it wasn't quite prudent to walk around so freely, even within some random muggle shop... but just the illusion of temporary freedom was something worth cherishing.

She drifted down the aisles, looking dispassionately at all the goods for the sale. The neat and clean shelves, the bright fluorescent lights, and the perfect, controlled temperature all seemed so alien to her. She filled her basket with things that she thought the boys would like, which resulted in her spending the longest time in front of the shelf stocked with sweets. She picked up some instant noodle soup, a small loaf of bread...  
She had to remember that her funds were very limited and that their quest was nowhere close to being over.

Eventually, she went and stood in the line leading up to the cashier. The sky was _just_ beginning to darken, and she knew she had to get back. Idly, she glanced to her left... and froze. She was confronted with, in the glass door of a refrigerator full of beverages, her reflection. Her hair looked awful, even though she'd tried so hard to braid it neatly. Her frayed and faded jumper hung off her shoulders, and her jeans were stained with dirt. Hermione Granger in the prime of her youth, ladies and gentlemen!  
Pointedly, she looked away. There was girl before her in the line, who looked about the same age as Hermione. Her hair was bleached blond and tied up in a high ponytail. She wore a tight denim dress and platform heels, and her toes were painted electric blue, and she pulled out a shiny pink snakeskin wallet to pay for her... her bottle of vodka and cigarettes.

  
The cashier was a man of about forty, with soft, hazel eyes. "Alright lass?" he asked kindly, and Hermione nodded with a wan smile.

 

 _I mind me of my youth and sigh,_  
Alas for youth, for youth gone by!

 

* * *

 

They were camped on Lyscombe Hill, and at five in the morning, Hermione took over guard duty from Ron. " _Bloody pointless_ ," he muttered under his breath as they passed each other.

The sun rising over lush green hills: It was probably the epitome of pastoral beauty and blah-bloody-blah, perhaps Constable would've got something out of it, but as far as Hermione was concerned, it was a routine, mundane phenomenon, and Mother Nature was nothing more than a frightful show-off.  
She flipped open _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ but then swiftly slammed it shut. Fuck off, Dumbledore. If this... this... inane children's book was what he presumed her intellect was worth, he well and truly could fuck right off.  
_Brightest Witch of Her Age._ God, she wanted to scream, to rend her voice box until it bled, until her screams would be echoing across all the hills in Dorset for eternity. She wanted to scream at Ron; she wanted to scream at Harry. She was better than this, better than them... she should just run away to Istanbul and study about Byzantine's clandestine cabal of witches. She should go to China and learn about the warlocks of the Xia dynasty. In Varanasi, she could live with Yogis and discover the secrets of Vedic magic. She was mired in mediocrity here, because of some vagrant boy who wanted to play hero, and –

WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?  
She exhaled hard, horrified at her herself. With a sniffle, she pulled the Horcrux-locket away from her skin, in the vain hope that that would stem its evil influence.

 

* * *

 

 _'I hate Ron.'_  
_'Finally! Thank Theo!'_  
'CANNOT BECOME A THING.'  
'Too late. May Theo bless u.'

 

* * *

 

They were camped on the bank of River Clwyd, and they were out of food again. The cicadas were chirruping, the river was quietly bubbling... inside the tent, the air was thick with animosity.

Ron was picking dourly at the food on his plate as he said, "My mother can make good fear appear out of thin air."  
From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Harry aim a ferocious frown at him, but somehow, he summoned the forbearance to stay quiet. She, however, had no patience left for him.  
"Your mother can't produce food out of thin air," she snapped, "No one can. Food is one of the first of five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfigur–"  
"Oh, speak English, can't you?" Ron erupted with a full mouth.  
Hermione grit her teeth. "It's impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can summon it if you know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you've already got some –"  
"Well, don't bother increasing this shite. It's disgusting."  
And that was it. She set her fork down and glared daggers at the perpetually malcontent pain in her arse. "Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I notice I'm always the one who ends up sorting out the food, because I'm a girl, I suppose!"  
"No, it's because you're supposed to be the best at magic!" Ron retorted baldly.  
She leapt to her feet, uncaring as some of her fish landed on the floor. "You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron! You can forage around for ingredients and try and charm them into something worth eating, and I'll sit here and pull faces and moan and you can see how you –"

"Shut up! Shut up now!" It was Harry who had expostulated roughly, and she felt a sharp sting of betrayal. She turned to him in indignation.  
"How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook–"  
"Hermione, be quiet! I can hear someone!"

She ran to her bag and took out three extendable ears, and tossed the boys one each. Then, with her knuckles pressed against her lips and her eyes fixed on Harry, she listened.  
Her terror ebbed when she found out that their 'visitors' were goblins; it turned into intrigue when she realised that Ted Tonks was with them, and then, when she heard Dean's voice, it took all the self-control she had not to run out and meet him.  
Then it got thrilling – there was a bit about Neville, Ginny, and Seamus trying to steal Gryffindor's sword from Snape's office... the fact that _The Quibbler_ had become a mouthpiece for rebellion...

When they drifted away, Harry gaped at her. "Ginny – the sword –" he stammered.  
"I know!" she squealed.  
She ran, once again, to her bag; there was a portrait of a former headmaster of Hogwarts within, with whom they might possibly have an illuminating chat.

 

* * *

 

Jubilant over the discovery that the sword of Gryffindor could destroy Horcruxes, Hermione and Harry were pitching ideas about its probable location.

"Think!" she rasped excitedly, "Think! Where would Dumbledore have left it?"  
"Not at Hogwarts," Harry said, pacing in his exhilaration.  
"Somewhere in Hogsmeade?"  
"The Shrieking Shack? Nobody ever goes in there."  
"But Snape knows how to get in... wouldn't that be a bit risky?"  
"Dumbledore trusted Snape."  
"Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords."  
"Yeah, you're right!" Harry grinned brightly, "So, would he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade then? What d'you reckon, Ron? ...Ron?"

Ron? Where was he? Hermione spun in a circle, scanning the tent, and came to an abrupt stop when Ron's low voice emitted from his shadowy bunk. "Oh, remembered me, have you?"  
"What?" Harry asked, moving closer to him.  
Ron waved him away, "You two carry on. Don't let me spoil your fun."

Harry looked at Hermione pleadingly, but she was just as much at a loss as he was. It had begun to drizzle outside, and the drops falling on the roof of the tent marked the 7... 8... 9 seconds they stewed in confusion. Hermione was sure that Ron would be pleased that they finally had something to go on.  
"What's the problem?" asked Harry, by and by.  
"Problem?" Ron spat, "There's no problem. Not according to you, anyway."  
"Well, you've obviously got a problem. Spit it out, will you?"  
Slowly, Ron sat up. His face – half in shadow, half doused in candlelight – looked more sinister than she had ever seen it. And by god, he did spit. He spewed venom like she'd never imagined him capable of... and there she'd thought she'd seen the worst of his nastiness.

 

*

 

A forceful shield charm stretched between: her and Harry on one side and Ron on the other. For 12... 13... 14 raindrops, Harry and Ron looked at each other, their expressions full of intense loathing.  
"Leave the Horcrux," Harry commanded sharply.  
Ron yanked the chain off his neck, and threw in onto a chair. Then he turned to Hermione, raising his eyebrows. "What are you doing?"  
"What – what do you mean?" she whispered.  
"Are you staying or what?" he barked.  
"I'm staying, Ron. WE said we'd go with Harry, remember. WE said we'd help–"  
"Shut the fuck up. I'm so _sick_ of your righteous bullshit. You choose him. Fine."  
"No – please – just listen –"  
"I get it, alright?!" he yelled, "If you could choose _Malfoy_ over me... of course _this_ is a no brainer."  
With that, Ron burst out of the tent. Unable to help herself, Hermione ran after him. She saw him charging to the edge of their protective barrier, and she gave chase, blinking as raindrops fell onto her eyelashes. "RON!" she called... but he disapparated. Her voice travelled over empty cold night air, down the churning black river, into ether...

She walked back inside with heavy, sodden steps, her muddy shoes squelching sickeningly. She kicked them off and lowered herself into an armchair, and pulled her knees up to hug them to her chest.  
"He's gone," she told Harry quiveringly.  
Harry looked too stunned to speak. With jerky motions, he draped a blanket over her hunched form, and then slipped into his bed on the other side of the tent.

* * *

 


	35. Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you, I've somehow made it to the finals of the 2018 Enchanted Awards! I still don't believe it. There are still a couple more days left to vote, if you'd like to do so... there are some truly wonderful stories to choose from.  
> Link to vote:  
> https:/drive.google.com/drive/folders/1dmntWZsZIADBkHcQqaBs1ocDVpIZ2pee?usp=sharing

She used her last two teabags the next morning.

Hermione and Harry didn't say a word as they sat across from each other, delicately sipping from their cups. He still had some of that gobsmacked air about him, and his eyes, from time to time, would glance at Ron's empty bunk, before quickly looking away.

She took the Horcrux from him, and put it around her own neck; his demons needed no more feeding.

They didn't speak as they packed their bags, nor as they dismantled the tent, nor as they erased all their footprints from the ground. They both dawdled deliberately, and they both kept eyeing the small copse across the river – foolishly thinking that a gangly, red-haired figure might emerge from within its depths – again and again, until finally, they simply stood side by side on the cleared riverbank, staring at the trees.  
They both sighed, and they both reached out to grasp hands simultaneously. Hermione apparated them to a hillside in Surrey, whereupon they immediately began setting up their camp and putting up their enchantments. Not a word was spoken.

 

* * *

 

Had you asked her the day before, "When, Hermione, did you fall out of love?" she'd have hemmed and hawed and fed you some rambling, cryptic bullshit about feelings not being absolute, and how you can never really pinpoint an exact moment, and ' _it's all a process, really, you know...?_ ' _  
_ But, as she stared out at the carpet of heather that rolled up and down hills, Hermione could most decisively state – " _I do not love Ron Weasley_."  
All her misgivings had been cemented, her doubts turned to certainties, and that twinge of longing – the one that told her that being _with_ one of her oldest friends might just be the best happiest ever after she could hope for – died.

He'd left. He'd actually _gone_. He'd abandoned her. He'd... _chucked up everything and just cleared off._

Surely a person's true character was revealed when things got difficult? It was in the way a strident underachiever like Harry would always rise to the challenge when faced with danger... the way meek old Neville and frivolous old Seamus were leading the rebellion in Hogwarts... the way Theo, without demur, had stuck with them to defend the school against Death Easters... the way Malfoy was risking his life to pass information to the Order...  
...The way Lupin tried to run away when Tonks got pregnant; the way Fleur stood by Bill after his run-in with Greyback...  
...The way Regulus Black decided to destroy Voldemort's Horcrux...  
And Ron had left Harry and Hermione to their fate.

Yes, she knew the Horcrux had played a part in this. But come on, Ron... is thy honourable mettle so easily wrought from that it is disposed? She had the locket around her neck right at that moment, and she could feel it's insidious coils of influence in the back of her mind... yet, her loyalty to Harry, and to the cause for which they were fighting would always, always triumph over them.

"I don't love you," she whispered, so soft that it became one with the wind. For the first time since that whole horrible ordeal, a tear rolled down her cheek.

 

* * *

 

Hermione and Harry still weren't speaking very much. Over the next week, they moved from one hill to the other in the same locality, dithering really, wondering what to do next.

One evening, as they ate eggs that Harry had filched from a nearby farmhouse, ("Don't worry, I left some money by the coop,") they wondered, once more, where Dumbledore could've left the sword:  
"...with Professor McGonagall?"  
"...a vault in Gringotts?"  
"...maybe gave it to Moody?"  
"...could it be with batty old Mrs. Figg?"  
Needless to say, they weren't getting anywhere.

 

The evenings were doused entirely in silence. She felt that Harry was afraid that if they spoke too much, she'd bring up Ron, or tell him that she'd had enough and was leaving too. There was no way to tell him how silly he was being without, well, bringing up Ron.

By the end of the week, she was so desperate that she brought out Phineas Nigellus' portrait to join them from dinner.  
"Your insolence is simply staggering," he drawled disdainfully, batting uselessly at the blindfold she'd conjured over his eyes.  
"What you call insolence, Professor, I call discretion," Hermione replied, matching his tone.  
"It's that muggleborn upbringing, I'm afraid," he sniffed, " _Beastly_."  
"Stop that. How're things at Hogwarts?" Harry demanded angrily.  
"I refuse to say a word until I am treated with more respect!"

Hermione added that experiment to her long list of failed endeavours.

 

* * *

 

Their reticence bled into weeks, and Hermione felt cold and debilitating loneliness wrap around her like a vice. Sitting vigilant outside the tent in the damp Lincolnshire Marsh, she wrote an imaginary letter to her parents. It was eleven pages long.

When Harry came out to take over from her, he gave her a curious look. "Do you think it's possible that Dumbledore gave the sword to Fawks?"  
"The... his phoenix?" Hermione asked wonderingly.  
"Yeah," said Harry, "Like in second year. Fawks delivered the sword to me in the Chamber of Secrets."  
"Er, that seems highly improbable, Harry. Where would a _phoenix_ store a sword for so long?"

Still, from that day on, Harry spent long portions of the day staring upwards. Hermione would sit by quietly, peering down at _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ There was such a vast lot of distance between the earth and the sky.

 

* * *

 

High up in the Yorkshire Dales, she lay on the dwindling grass and held a strand of her hair against the setting sun. The weather was getting colder and colder; she wouldn't be surprised if it began snowing in a week or so. She let her hair drop and took out her current most prized procession: her DA Galleon.

 _'Babbitty Rabbitty & her Cacking STUMP?!'  
'Ah! 1 of my favourites!'  
'Magicfolk are mad.'  
'Shut up. Delightful story.'  
'She was an animagus?'  
'Yes.'  
'What animal would u be?'  
'Puma.' _– _– 'No. Husky.'_ – _–_ _'No. Fox.'_ – _–_ _'Falcon.'_ – _  
'THEO !'  
_ – _'Jaguar.'_ – _–_ _'Gazelle.'_ – _– 'Giant English Mastiff.'_ –

 

* * *

 

On Great Gable, sleet and rain tumbled down upon them seemingly out of nowhere. Hermione rushed into the tent as fast as her legs could go. She entered, and the warmth within was the greatest relief she had ever known. Shaking chunks of ice out of her hair, she walked over to her bunk and lay down on her stomach, burying her frozen nose in her pillow.  
Once she'd thawed, she peeked at Harry, who was sprawled in his own bunk, immersed in the Marauder's map.

"What's happening at Hogwarts today?" she asked.  
With a slight frown, he replied, "The lot of them – Ginny, Neville, Seamus... The Patils, Lavender... Boot, Corner, Ernie – went one by one to the seventh floor... and then disappeared."  
"Into the Room of Requirement? I mean, of course! So Dumbledore's Army is still going strong!" Hermione bit her lip, scared for her friends, but so, _so_ proud...  
"And I think _Peeves_ is helping by keeping the Carrows busy."  
"...Wow."  
"That's not the strange part. Malfoy and Tracey Davis went in too."  
"Well, that's... not all that strange, Harry."  
"Yeah," Harry grunted, "I suppose not. Nothing seems _all that strange_ now anyway."  
He went on to mumble something about Dumbledore under his breath, which Hermione didn't quite catch, and then they lapsed into their usual silence.

 

* * *

 

Tired of the harsh mountainous terrain and climate, Harry and Hermione set up camp in Rossendale Valley. But while the conditions were marginally better, the strain between them was at its worst. Hermione suffered for a day and a half, but then something in her snapped.

Enough.  
Ron didn't deserve to have so much power over them.  
"Harry," she said, sometime around five in the evening, "I'm going to pop over to the nearest town... pick up something to eat."  
"Alright," he said dully.

  
She didn't let herself get distracted while shopping this time. The place she was in was smaller and more homely than the last one, and she quickly picked up some teabags, sugar, milk powder, spaghetti, a jar of Bolognese sauce, and tinned fruit.  
Her final purchase was the main reason she'd bothered to make that excursion. She held the bottle close to her chest as she hurried out of the shop and into a corner alley, from where she apparated back to their campsite.

 

Long after darkness had fallen and a steady hailstorm had commenced outside, Hermione set her purchase down on the coffee table in front of Harry. He looked up from the Marauder's map, and eyed the bottle distrustfully.  
"What's that?"  
"Egregiously cheap whiskey," Hermione replied, placing two glasses on the table as well.  
"Er... Are we going to drink it?"  
"Yes."  
"Is that wise?" Harry asked in that tired, sanity-questioning tone of his.  
Hermione sighed in defeat. "Probably not," she whispered, staring down at her hands. Well, that was that. She was done trying; tired of failing. They'd just spend the rest of forever stewing in silence and discomfort, and –  
"Pour us a glass then."

Her head snapped up in shock. Harry shot a small smile at her, baffled and amused, looking like he still wasn't convinced she was sane. But nonetheless, he held out a hand expectantly, "And don't be stingy, yeah?"

 

*

 

"Isn't it a terrible, _terrible_ pity ," Hermione lamented dramatically, "That you can never tell your story to the muggle world?"  
She was sitting across an armchair, with her legs hanging off one arm and her head tipped over the other. She looked at upside-down Harry with large, earnest eyes. He was slumped so low in his chair that his chin was resting on his chest.  
"It'd be a pity to get arrested," he mumbled, "Stat – Stat – Sta-choot of secrecy and all that..."  
"No, but just think! They'd go wild! Blooming Hollywood would lap you up! Harry! You'd become a cultural icon... a... a... fucking billion dollar franchise! You'd be bigger than – OH!" In her excitement, Hermione had sat up; the sudden rush of blood made her wonderfully giddy, "...was I saying?"  
"Bigger," Harry supplied obligingly, spreading his arms wide.  
"Right. You'd be bigger than James Bond!"  
He snorted, "I'm not the Hollywood type, 'ermione."  
Hermione didn't think that was a cause for concern. "Oh they'll find some dashing young lad to play you. No problem."  
"And what about you?" Harry grinned, "There'll have to be a pretty girl sidekick sort who –"  
"Bite your tongue, Harry Potter. I would _never_ let my character be reduced to mere eye-candy!"  
His grin was the closest thing she'd seen to a Glasgow smile. "Fuck, you'd make the director's life _hell_. You'd never leave, boss everyone around, and... and take over everything, and –"  
"AND I," Hermione declared, pointing a finger at him, "Would be the reason the film'll be a roaring success –"  
"Oh, sure, sure –"  
"Harry, you'll be famous."  
"Yeah. Famous. I wonder what that's like," he said dryly. Hermione broke into a fit of giggles.

He slid of his chair like he hadn't a single bone in his body, landing on the carpet with a grunt of surprise. Hermione's giggles intensified.

Who – seriously _who_ – said that alcohol doesn't solve any problems?

 

"Last call," Harry announced, shaking the bottle. The golden liquid sloshed about hypnotically. Hermione gave Harry her empty glass and got shakily onto her feet. "Where're you going?" he asked.  
"Loo."  
She staggered across the tent, grabbing whatever was in her way for support. There was a scratched up and foggy mirror in the tiny, under-lit bathroom, and after she'd finished her business, she stared into it. Her face was extremely flushed, her eyelids were heavy, but the corners of her mouth were turned up.

  
When she returned to the main room, Harry was comfortably stretched out on the carpet, leaning against the chair he had previously occupied. Hermione fell back into her own, and picked up her freshly refilled glass gratefully, robbing it of a generous sip.

"I miss Ginny," Harry said in a low voice.  
"I miss her too," Hermione murmured. "I miss Theo."  
He peered at her inquisitively through his glasses. "Are you in love with him?"  
She laughed softly, "No. But I do love him."  
"So weird."  
"...'tis. But 'tisn't. He's wonderful, Harry, really. You should..." then she sat up, suddenly energised, "You should be his friend too!"  
"Wha–"  
"Wait. I'll tell him."  
Ignoring Harry's inane questions, Hermione reached into her pocked to pull out her wand and DA Galleon.  
_'Harry wants to be your friend'_

"He's got one too?" Harry asked.  
"Luna's," Hermione nodded.

 _'What the fuck?!'_  
Hermione frowned. _'Harry wants to b friends okay'_  
_'Is this a joke?'_  
_'NO.'_  
_'What.' –– 'WHAT.' –– 'Seriously?'_

"Harry," Hermione cried dismally, "He doesn't believe me!"  
"Gimmi that," Harry demanded. She handed him the Galleon, and he held it in front of his face and blinked, before yelling, "YES SERIOUSLY."  
"It doesn't work like that, you idiot!" Hermione stumbled over and dropped onto the floor next to him. "Like this, see..." She tapped it with her wand.  
_'YES SERIOUSLY. FRIENDS.'  
'?'–– 'Are you drunk?' _  
"YES," Hermione and Harry both shouted at the coin. Then they looked at each other, before simultaneously tapping it with their wands.  
_'YES yes'_  
_'Bloody fuck.' –– 'Here I am worried sick' –– ' & U R out there getting pissed' –– 'This is bullshit.' _  
Hermione, distressed, gasped; "Sorry, Theo!"  
_'Luna = sanest person I know' –– 'Going to bed. Goodnight.'_

"Oh no," Hermione wailed.  
Harry patted her hand consolingly. "He's not being very friendly," he said crossly.  
"It's okay," she sniffed, "We're going to have to be persistent. Like he was with me... and look at us now." She sighed and laid her head on Harry's shoulder. He put an arm around her and gently began stroking her hair.

 

"Harry," she whispered, after... some? ...a lot of?... time, "We'll get through this, you know? You'll kill that sadistic bastard, and we'll all be able to live again."  
Harry let out a slow breath. "It doesn't fucking feel that way. I mean, we're not even _close_... And I feel like such a twat... donno what to _do_..."  
"Shhh," she chided, "You'll figure it out. I believe in you. And I'll help... I promise. I won't leave you like... like... I won't leave you."  
"I know," Harry sighed.

Her head slid down to his chest, and she could feel his every inhale and exhale; she could hear the muffled beating of his heart. He was so incontestably _alive_...

 

*

 

She woke up with a parched throat and a throbbing head. Her eyes were in no mood to open. Still, she sat up and stretched... holy _hell_ , her back hurt.  
They'd fallen asleep right there on the floor.

Hermione looked at Harry, who was still out cold, and lightly snoring. His neck and arm were bent at distressingly uncomfortable looking angles, so she straightened them out, then summoned his blanket from his bed and spread it over him. All the while, he remained fast asleep.  
After washing up, she dragged herself into the kitchen and prepared two cups of sweet, strong tea. She left one hovering in front of Harry, fortified with a lasting warming charm; she knew he'd greatly appreciate it when he'd resurface.

Bundled up in her thickest coat, Hermione stepped out of the tent, and took a deep gulp of fresh and cold early morning air. There was a lot of fog about, and the world was divided into multicoloured streaks like a sedimentary rock – deep blue on top... then lighter... purple... mauve... one thin bright stripe of tangerine... a pale line of snow covered hills... the near-black silhouette of the distant town... the dark but gold-lined layer of barren trees... the blue-brown-grey foreground...  
Clusters of lightly glowing fairies fluttered above the thistle bushes scattered around.

She stood in the midst of that whirlwind of colour and watched the new day blossom.

 

* * *

 

 _'Hi.'  
'Hi?' _ –– _'You're saying hi?'_ –– _'What the fuck was all that?'  
'I'm sorry.' _ –– _'Had a rough couple of days'_ –– _'Needed a break.'_  
' _I see.'_

For a full five minutes, she shilly-shallied over what to say next, feeling like a chastised little girl... but then:

 _'Are you okay, Hermione?'  
'Yes. Miss you. But yes.'  
'Miss you too. Every day.' _ –– _'Potter REALLY wants to b friends?'_  
She laughed out loud.  
_'Of course. Who wouldn't?'  
'True. You're right.' _ –– _'Will make him grovel though'_  
_'Wouldn't expect anything less.'_

 

* * *

 

Hermione couldn't stop laughing as Harry tried to almost-swallow his riddle-incrusted snitch for the second time. His bulging eyes and throat gave him the appearance of a much startled frog...  
"ACK!" He coughed, sputtered, and spat the tiny golden ball into his palm.  
Shuddering at the cosmic amount of saliva that coated it, Hermione contained her chuckles and said, "Well, that didn't work."  
"Holy cunting hell," he croaked, "No... didn't work... _gah_... water!"  
Hermione obliged, and he gulped down an entire bottle.  
"You really think Dumbledore hid the sword's location in the snitch?" Harry asked once his face was less red, and his breathing was under control.  
"I have no idea, Harry."  
"Hmph," he scowled, "I can't believe I let you convince me to try swallowing it."  
Helpless, Hermione starting laughing again. "I can't believe it either."  
"Huh?"  
"Harry," she sniggered, "I was _joking._ "  
"What? WHAT?" He stood up looking most insulted, "You _cow_!"  
"Oh, _oh_ ," she gasped, doubling over.

 

* * *

 

It was snowing heavily. They were cosseted in the tent that was covered in snow that stretched across the island that sat in the middle of Loch Maree that was situated in the Northwest Scottish Highlands (that lay in the house that Jack built).

With _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ resting on her knees, Hermione emerged from a period of deep contemplation with a subtle shake of her head.  
"Harry," she said, jolting him out of his own ponderings, "could you help me with something?" He nodded and so she held the book out towards him and pointed to the top of the open page. "Look at the symbol."  
Harry assessed the strange triangular-looking eye with its vertically bisected pupil. "I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione," he said eventually.  
"I know that, but it isn't a rune and it's not in the Syllabary, either," she told him in a rush, "At first I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don't think it is! It's been inked in; Dumbledore – or – somebody's drawn it there... it isn't really part of the book. Think! Have you ever seen it before?"  
"No," he stated. But then he leaned a little closer... "No, wait a moment... Isn't it the same symbol Luna's dad was wearing around his neck?"  
"That's what I thought too!" she exclaimed eagerly.  
"Then it's Grindelwald's mark!"  
"... _What_?"  
"Krum told me," Harry replied, "Apparently, Grindelvald had carved it into a wall at Durmstrang when he was a pupil there. It became his... mark."  
Hermione stared at the odd symbol in astonishment. "I've never heard that Grindelwald had a mark. There's no mention of it in anything I've read about him. It's all... very odd. And _why_ has it been drawn in a book of children's stories?"  
Harry scratched the back of his head. "Yeah," he agreed, "it is weird."

She traced the shapes with her fingernail, thinking furiously. It _had_ to have been Dumbledore who put that symbol there... but why? It had to mean something; why else –  
"Hermione?"  
"Hmm?"  
She looked back up at Harry, and he was nervously tapping his fist against his knee.  
"I've been thinking. I– I want to go to Godric's Hollow."  
And there they were at last. "Yes," she sighed, "Yes. I really think we'll have to."  
"Did you hear me right?" He blinked at her.  
"Of course I did," she said, rolling her eyes, "You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree; I think we should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."  
"Er – what's there?"  
She stared at him. Where was his mind? "The sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have known you'd want to go there... and I mean, Godric's Hollow _is_ Godric Gryffindor's birthplace –"  
"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"  
"Harry," she ground out, quickly losing her patience, "Did you ever even open _A History of Magic_?"  
He smiled at her _very_ sheepishly. "Erm... I might've opened you know, when I bought it... just the once..."  
"Well," she said tartly (but also smiling a bit,) "As the village is named after him I'd have thought you might have made the connection. ...But you see? Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think Dumbledore would have expected –?"  
"Sure," Harry shrugged, and a pall fell over his face as it always did when the topic of Dumbledore's possible designs came up. "Remember what Muriel said?"  
"Huh?"  
"You know... er... Ginny's great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles."  
"Oh."  
Hermione squirmed, but Harry didn't let the name he _didn't_ say linger: "She said Bathilda Bagshot still lives in Godric's Hollow."  
"Hm. Well, I suppose – _OH!_ "  
Harry jumped to his feet, wand drawn...

  
"What did you do that for?" he snapped, after calming down, "I thought you'd seen a bloody Death Eater unzipping the tent, at least –"  
"What if Bathilda's got the sword?" she gushed, too excited to be embarrassed, "What if Dumbledore entrusted it to her?"  
Harry sat slowly back down and frowned. "Yeah... he might have done. So, are we going to go to Godric's Hollow?"  
Now, Hermione stood up. They had a PLAN – how glorious! "We'll have to think it through carefully, Harry. We'll need to practice disapparating together under the Invisibility Cloak for a start..." She began pacing up and down across the tent, aware that Harry was only half listening, but who cares, they had a PLAN! "...and perhaps disillusionment charms would be sensible too, unless you think we should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we'll need to collect hair from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, Harry, the thicker our disguises the better..."

 

* * *

 

 **DAY 1 :**  
"Why the hell are we doing this?" Harry raged after their sixth attempt to disapparate together under the cloak had resulted in him falling flat on his face, "Let's just GO."  
"I _told you_ Harry... You-Know-Who'll expect you to show up there! We need to be fully prepared!"

  
**DAY 2 :**  
Harry came back from the nearby village with a small plum cake and two strands of hair.

  
 **DAY 3 :**  
_'Your scarf saved my life today'  
'What happened?'  
'Xeno tried to test his new shaving charm' _ –– _'On me. Bounced off the scarf'_ –– _'sliced the tassel off his hat'_ –– _'You're the best.'_  
_'Oh my god!'_

  
**DAY 4 :**  
They managed to successfully apparate under the cloak. Hermione insisted that they do it again fifteen more times.

  
 **DAY 5 :**  
"Come _on_ , Hermione... we're ready!"  
"Yes... yes. I think we've done all we can."  
"Brilliant! So we can go?"  
"Just let it get dark..."

 

* * *

 

The graveyard was filled with shadows and eerie serenity. In the distance, tiny houses decked with twinkling lights seemed to belong to a different world.

Hermione, hunched in her guise of an aging, mousy little woman, wondered among the gravestones feeling both scared and solemn. Dumbledore's mother's and sister's graves were the only noteworthy ones she'd found so far. Up ahead, Harry (a broad, balding man) was moving a lot faster, with much more purpose. She could only try to understand what he was feeling...  
That is, until another tombstone stopped her in her tracks.

"Harry, come back a moment," she called softly.  
"What?" he huffed impatiently, trudging through the snow towards her.  
She crouched to look more closely at the weather-beaten grave; "Look at this! It's the mark in the book!"  
He squatted beside her, and peered at where she was pointing. "Yeah... it could be..."  
"It says Ig—Ignotus, I think –"  
"I'm going to keep looking for my parents, all right?" Old-Man-Harry said with some irritation, and he stood up and rushed away.  
She followed, with a sigh.

She'd never spent much time in a graveyard. Her grandparents had died, one by one, when she was very young, and she remembered their funerals only vaguely. In her memories, graveyards were peeked at from behind the pleats of her mother's black dress, or over her father's shoulder as he carried her. And here she was walking over hundreds of skeletons, passing by hundreds of tiny memorials… a bit of stone to commemorate a entire life, a whole person, a –

"Harry, they're here... right here."  
She waited before the modest little tomb of pristine white marble, (JAMES POTTER; LILLY POTTER; _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_ ,) and when he had joined her, she took his hand in hers.  
They stood there for a long, long moment, hand in hand. He was struggling to breathe, she could tell; he squeezed her fingers in distress.  
She spun her hand in a circle and conjured a small wreath of Hellebores, which he gently laid on before the headstone.  
Then he stepped back, put his arm around her and walked them away from the grave... from all the graves... back out into the village square.

 

* * *

 

She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all.

If Old-Woman-Hermione was old, then the woman they were following was _prehistoric._ Old-Man-Harry had a grasp on her elbow, and was ardently dragging her along behind the hobbling relic. He was quite convinced that she was Bathilda Bagshot... and (Not- _That_ -)Old-Woman-Hermione... well, she didn't like it. Not one bit.

They entered her house, and Old-Woman-Hermione's hand flew up to her tiny, beak-like nose. The place smelled terrible; simultaneously like rotting food and open drains.  
Bathilda's colour was off. While it was true that people turned grey with age, they certainly didn't obtain that delightful green tinge on their skin unless it was necrotic.  
The mottled Bag...shot shambled into an adjoining room, leaving Old-People-Harry-and-Hermione in the hall staring nervously at each other.  
"Harry, I'm not sure about this," she whispered.  
He shook his head. "Look at the size of her; I think we could overpower her if we had to... Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn't all there. Muriel called her 'gaga' –" A sudden loud and creepy hissing sound shot out of the room Bathilda had just entered, "– It's okay," he said calmly, and dragged her into the room.

She didn't like this... At. All.

The room was dark and extremely filthy. The unbearable stench was much worse in there. Bathilda was bent by a dusty fireplace, mishandling a stack of logs. Old-Woman-Hermione precariously approached her and murmured, "Er – shall I...?"  
Ghostly, filmy eyes surveyed her impassively; she swallowed. But then Bathilda stepped aside, and let Old-Woman-Hermione light the fire.  
Just as she finished, she heard Old-Man-Harry say, "Ms. Bagshot?" and turned to see him shoving a framed photograph in front of the corpse-like woman's face. "Who is this person?" he asked eagerly, "Do you know who this is? This man? Do you know him? What's he called? _Who is this man?_ "  
"Harry, what are you doing?" she asked incredulously.  
"This picture, Hermione... it's the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please! Bathilda! Who is this?"  
Bathilda just gazed at him mutely. She hadn't spoken a single word thus far... Old-Woman-Hermione didn't like that at all.  
"Why did you ask us to come with you, Ms. Bagshot? Was there something you wanted to tell us?"  
She spoke deliberately loudly... only to be ignored. Bathilda hobbled closer to Old-Man-Harry, and began gesturing inelegantly.  
"You want us to leave?" he asked. "Oh, right...Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."  
Old-Woman-Hermione groaned to herself. "All right," she sighed, "Let's go."  
"She wants me to go with her, alone."  
" _Why?_ "  
"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only me?"  
She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. "Do you really think she knows who you are?"  
"...Yes... I think she does."  
"Well, okay then. But be quick, Harry." _Please_.

They left her alone in the dim, dirty, smelly little room. She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking and bouncing on the balls of her feet. She really wished they'd be quick about it all...  
She carefully took a turn about the room, stopping in front of Bathilda's bookshelf. Floor to ceiling, it was filled with tomes from... _wow!_... from the Ptolemaic Kingdom, the Achaemenid Empire...  
On the small table by the shelf, was another very intriguing book, _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_. Setting her scruples aside, she shoved it into her bag.

 

 _THUD._  
It was muffled, but there was definitely a _thud_ , and it came from upstairs. Her entire frame tingled with apprehension. She walked back into the hall and cautiously began climbing up the stairs.  
"Harry?" she called. No response.  
**_CRASH!_**  
She nearly fell backwards down the stairs. " _Fuck!_ " she breathed and charged ahead... really, this so wasn't the time to be stuck with Old-Woman-Joints...

The scene that greeted her upstairs knocked the wind out of her.  
" _STUPEFY!_ " she shrieked, aiming straight for the giant snake's head, but it lashed out of the way. Luckily, the motion caused it to forfeit its hold on Old-Man-Harry, and he fell heavily onto the floor. " _Stupefy!_ " she tried once again, and the snake darted towards her menacingly. " _Expulso!_ " she shouted, but had to dive behind a chest of drawers before she could aim properly...  
There was the sound of glass shattering...

Cowering behind her hiding place, she let herself inhale once...  
" _Everte Statum!_ "  
The snake flew back, uncoiling, thrashing wildly...  
"He's coming! _Hermione, he's coming!_ " Old-Man-Harry's voice carried over the serpents mad hissing... and suddenly he was there, beside her. Scant hair and wrinkled face caked with sweat, he pulled her bodily toward a window...

The snake was still having paroxysms. Its tail was flaying wildly, smashing, crashing... furniture and ornaments were flying all over the place...

With her in his arms, Old-Man-Harry jumped atop a broken dresser. The snake flew at them, spitting venom and –  
" _Confringo!_ " Old-Woman-Hermione screamed.  
Bright light exploded out of her wand and scattered all over the room, bouncing off _everything_...

And they leapt out of the window.

 

* * *

 

He fell the moment they materialised on Hay Bluff, and he took her down with him.

Old-Woman-Hermione lay panting, wheezing, coughing on the snow covered ground, with Old-Man-Harry half on top of her; by the time she emerged out of her state of shock, she was back to being Hermione, the original.  
"Harry," she whispered, shaking Harry (the original's) arm, "Come on, Harry, move... we've got to put the protective spells up."  
" _Almost... Almost..._ " he hissed, but didn't move.  
"What – HARRY?"  
With much effort, she rolled him off herself and onto his back... he lay limp and unconscious, quite blue in the face.  
"Oh god, Oh no ... Harry! _Harry_!" She shook him harder and harder, but all he did was moan and twitch. She touched his forehead, and found it to be burning hot. An anguished, panicked "SHIT!" tore out of her throat, and like a tornado she spun around Harry's inert body, casting enchantments, pitching the tent...

  
" _Locomotor!_ " She levitated him inside the tent, laying him gently on his bunk.  
"No no no no no no NO," he chanted, and suddenly his back arched and he roared. His wand – in two pieces – fell with a _clatter-clatter_ onto the floor.  
"Oh god oh fuck..."  
Hermione's internal organs all clumped together to form a giant orb of terror inside her. _Damn it._ What was she to do?  
"AHHHH, NO STOP!" Harry screamed, writhing like one in need of an exorcism. He clutched his chest, clawing at – _Oh –_ the Horcrux! She wrenched his hands away, difficult as it was, and pulled... pulled... pulled... It seemed to have fused into his skin.  
Tears flooded her eyes and she whimpered, " _diffendo,_ " severing the fucking locket off his chest. He yelled in agony.  
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Harry," she sobbed, pouting dittany on his wound. Then abruptly, he began to laugh. It was a cold, sinister, _evil_ laugh that made her skin prickle. Oh what was she to do? What – _What_ –  
_The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you,_ her tears were falling onto his shirt as, just as abruptly, he began to cry.  
"No... please... _MUM_ ," he wailed. He curled into a fetal position and trembled, weeping... weeping along with him, Hermione conjured a washcloth and dabbed at his face.  
"Please wake up, Harry, _please wake up!_ "  
"No," he moaned.  
"Harry, Harry – please! You're okay..."  
"No..."  
"Harry, it's all right; you're all right."  
"No... I dropped it... I dropped it..."  
"Harry... wake up, _wake up_!"

He opened his eyes with a gasp, and looked straight into hers. The sight of that bright, wonderful green filled her with so much relief that it hurt. She gasped, too.  
"Harry," she murmured tremulously, "Do you feel all –all right?"  
"Yes?"  
His voice was rough and unsure. Staring up into nothing, he raised a shaky hand to wipe the sweat off his brow.  
"We got away," he breathed.  
"Yes."

* * *

 


	36. Thirty-Six

**  
** “You’re still really angry at me, aren’t you?” Hermione asked with no little resentment.  
Harry, who’d been staring stonily at the broken fragments of his wand for hours, said, “No. No, Hermione… I know it was an accident. You were trying to get us out of there, and you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t been there to help me.”  
His words did nothing to ease her mind, for his expression, cold and aloof, belied all that he had said. He _was_ still angry with her. The little joy they had amassed before their excursion to Godric’s Hollow lay in ashes.

Her dreams were haunted by visions of giant darting snakes, and rows of graves bearing the names of all her near and dear ones.

 

Sheets of snow were falling down from the dreary sky, the air was bitterly cold, the ground was barren... altogether an enchanting little assortment of allegories for misery. While Harry wallowed, Hermione perused _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_. It was prime Skeetershite: Dramatic and deeply in love with its own sensationalism. It certainly painted an awful picture of Dumbledore’s family life. She kept a metaphorical bucket of salt beside her as she read.  
When she reached a bit about Dumbledore’s friendship with Grindelwald, she rushed to share it with Harry. He was horrified, deeply disturbed, and felt, most prominently, angered and betrayed. It was a fall of the idol, _God is dead_ moment for him, and she understood his rage, but... But.

To her, it seemed eminently forgivable; a childish folly, a dangerous but passing dalliance that Dumbledore clearly grew out of. For which hot-blooded youth was immune to the impressionability, the zeal, and the hubris of being young and brilliant? The difficulty of his circumstance must certainly have played a part. As much as Hermione liked to believe that her mind wasn’t all that malleable, it might just have been _her_ pride that had set up that conviction. Who knew how she might change as she got older? Who could say what pieces of her might fall off, what notions she might abandon, what ideals she may stow away? It was her situation – as a muggleborn and hence a target – that had brought her to the right side of the war. Would she have been the same if she had been born to a conservative, pureblood family like... um, certain people she knew? And he... um, _those certain people_... were now fighting for the light.  
She hated that division; _light_ and _dark_. It was too simplistic... too idealised. If anything, war was one big monochromatic slab of impenetrable black. She didn’t have any righteousness left in her.  
What a bleak world it would be if people weren’t allowed to change... if they were bound eternally to their fledgling principles... if they were never permitted to break away from their past...  
It was the ones that _didn’t_ change that deserved censure. Those that stuck staunchly by their regressive or twisted ideals even when they could – and should – have known better.

She didn’t say any of that to Harry. It wasn’t the time for a debate about ethics.

  
“Harry, I’m sorry, but I think the real reason you’re so angry is that Dumbledore never told you any of this himself.”  
He threw his hands over his head and shouted, “Maybe I am! Look what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And fucking again! And don’t expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I’m doing, trust me even though I don’t trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!”

The stretch of pristine, virgin snow between them seemed to expand as they stared at each other. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed.  
“He loved you,” Hermione murmured, “I know he loved you.”  
“I don’t know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn’t love, the mess he’s left me in.”

He turned away then, and she didn’t follow. For older Dumbledore’s secrecy and shiftiness, she had no justifications.

 

* * *

 

Hermione’s blood was gushing and her breathing was shallow. She shone the bright like emanating from her wand all across the hillside, as her heart, vibrating with palpitations, climbed up her throat. It appeared that she was alone... but she had thought... she was almost sure she had seen a shadow pass through the thorny bramble...

Harry emerged from the tent after what seemed like a decade had passed, looking like his nap hadn’t done him any good. By then, daylight had seeped into the gloom, lighting up the snow, and proving once and for all that there was, in fact, nobody there.  
“How about we pack up early and move on?”  
She agreed readily.

 

* * *

 

_Five-year-old Hermione Granger stood between mum and dad as they all stared up at a thick, lush canopy of green leaves._

_“Well, there goes our afternoon of cloud-watching,” dad said, sounding sad, “Bollocks!”  
“Language, Robert!” mum scolded.  
“Ah, sorry marm. Anyhoo. Lemonade, anyone?”  
“Oh, yes, please!” Hermione chimed. _

_While mum and dad went to rummage around in the cooler by their tent, Hermione glared angrily up at the branches that were blocking the view of the sky. How dare the silly things ruin dad’s plans? She raised her hands and wished that they’d shift around just a little..._

_And lo and behold they did! They did!  
“DAD! MUM! CLOUDS!” Hermione cried with delight.  
They came running out, bewildered, as Hermione clapped her hands and laughed.  
“Wha – What on earth?” Dad stared up at the branches with big, wide eyes.  
“How did that happen? How is that possible?” mum asked, grabbing dad’s arm, “Robert, How –”  
“Wind?” suggested dad, weakly.  
“Wind?!” mum repeated, “Those boughs are massive! How are they bending like that? It isn’t physica –” _

_“Look!” Hermione, who had lain down on the forest floor, exclaimed, “That cloud looks just like Grandpa Bruce with his pipe!”_

 

*  


  
Eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger cast a warming charm on the icy ground of the Forest of Dean and lay down with a sigh. The leafless, naked branches overhead formed a thick mesh through which tiny mosaiced chucks of sky were visible. She raised her wand and pushed them aside, braiding them together intricately so that they formed a circlet, and the firmament was fully revealed. There was not a single cloud to be seen. But then again, she had more than enough of the symbolic sort in her life.

_And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,  
And the forests will echo with laughter.  
_

 

* * *

 

Harry’s sulking was driving her barmy. They’d been sharing her wand for the past three days, and every time he’d ask for hers he’d have this woe-is-me-and-a-plague-upon-thee look on his face that was so bloody _irksome_ that Hermione itched to tell him to shove off.

She tried something a little more productive.

“Summon this,” she ordered, and placed her copy of _The History of Magic_ a short distance away from him.  
“Wha – why?” he asked, frowning.  
“Just do it, will you!”  
It was obvious that he wanted to say, ‘ _You’re mental, fuck off,’_ but he gathered the fortitude to mutter, “Give me your wand then.”  
“No.”  
“ _No?_ ”  
“No.”  
“But – what – how the hell do you expect me to summon that stupid book?”  
“It is _not_ a stupid book, Harry. Summon it wandlessly.”  
“That’s impossible,” he exclaimed in irritation, “What are you playing at?”  
“Not impossi–”  
“Oh fine! Bloody hell. Only really powerful and accomplished wizards and witches can –”  
His mouth snapped shut when the book zoomed into Hermione’s open hand. She arched a brow at him.  
“When did you learn to do that?!” he spluttered.  
“Last year,” she replied.  
“ _How?_ ”  
“I don’t know Harry... I practiced.” Feeling quite impatient, Hermione put the book down again, “Now it’s your turn. Go on. Summon the book.”  
“I can’t!”  
“You haven’t even tried!”  
“Damn it, Hermione,” Harry growled, “I’m not as good at magic as you are! I can’t –”  
“Oh, shut _up_!” she cried, rolling her eyes heavily, “Your humility is very endearing, Harry, but honestly... just... _shut up_. You’re a very capable wizard. Look at what you’ve done! You’ve faced the Darkest wizard alive on so many occasions, and lived to tell the tale.”  
“That was BECAUSE of my wand,” Harry spat, “The protection of the twin cores –”  
“ _THE WAND IS ONLY AS GOOD AS THE WIZARD!_ BUT ANYWAY, YOUR WAND’S GONE OKAY? IT’S BROKEN. IT’S USELESS. STOP LANGUISHING IN SELF-PITY AND SUMMON THE STUPID BOOK!”  
She hadn’t realised how loudly she’d been yelling, till she caught the stunned look on Harry’s face.  
“Sorry,” she mumbled.  
“I thought we weren’t allowed to call the book stupid.”  
“ _Harry!_ ”  
“Oh alright,” he grumbled sullenly, “How am I supposed to do this? What do I do with my hands? Do I point?”  
“Whatever feels comfortable,” she said tiredly.  
“Er,” he raised his right hand limply and fixed a distrustful eye on the book, “ _Accio!_ ”  
Nothing happened.  
“This is stupid.”  
“Keep. Trying.”  

She didn’t relent for over an hour and a half. Harry’s temper rose with every unsuccessful attempt.  
“ _Sod it_ ,” he raged, “Seriously. Enough. This isn’t going to work.”  
“It will!” she insisted fervently, “Harry, it will. It’s like learning to swim. Once you figure out the trick, you’ll be able to do more than just summon things. Now come... once more...”  
“Bloody bullshit,” he muttered, but complied.

Another fruitless hour went by.  
“That’s _it_. I’m done. DONE. Good day to you.”  
“ _Harry_ ,” she snapped, “Get back here! You are not done –”  
“Oh yes I am!”  
“Listen to me, this isn’t a joke – you need to learn to do this!”  
“I CAN’T! OBVIOUSLY, I CAN’T –”  
“– JUST TRY –”  
“– BEEN AT IT FOR HOURS AND –”  
“– SO UNWILLING TO MAKE AN EFFORT –”  
“– JUST ISN’T WORKING – WHAT, _UNWILLING?!_ ARE YOU –”  
“– IT WILL WORK! YOU CAN DO THIS –”  
“– SHIT, YOU’RE SUCH A.... FUCKING _ACCIO!_ ”  
And the _History of Magic_ rose from its place and shot towards Harry, who caught it with a gasp of ultimate shock. For a long moment, they both stared at it, breathing hard.  
Finally, Hermione whispered, “Oh my god. You did it. You did it.”  
“I – I did it. I did it,” Harry parroted dumbly, “Er, will I have to be in a strop every time for this to work?”  
“No,” Hermione laughed breathlessly, “You want to try again?”  
“Yeah.”

  
They tried a dozen more times, and Harry suffered failure only thrice. Each time he got it right, Hermione moved the book a little further, until finally, he was able to tear it away from her while she hugged it tightly to her chest.  
“Brilliant!” she cheered, and he grinned.  
“So what next?” he asked.  
“Bigger objects, heavier objects, until you’ve got it perfected,” Hermione gushed excitedly, “Thing is, wandless magic is markedly less potent than that which is channelled through a wand, so I think, for emergencies, you should practice stunning and disarming. The latter should be easy... you have a rather strong, um, affinity for _expelliarmus..._ ”

 

* * *

 

‘ _..._ _And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travellers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their...’_

_Death looked an awful lot like Dumbledore, but with an inky black beard and obsidian eyes. Stern and hooded, he stood like the statue of Giordano Bruno on a bridge over troubled waters. Before him were Harry, Lupin, and Malfoy, all seeped in the hazy glow of twilight.  
“I need to defeat Voldemort!” Harry cried, “You promised you’d help! Give me the power to kill Voldemort!”  
 “He’s dead!” Lupin howled, “You promised he’d be safe! Sirius... Oh, bring him back! Bring him back!”  
“I need to get out!” Malfoy roared, “You promised me a way out! Tell me where to hide... Tell me how!”  
But Dumbledore simply smiled – his calm, serene smile, which looked nothing less than ominous in his current getup. _

_From her distant vantage point, (...was she standing on a ledge? A cloud? She didn’t dare look down...) Hermione watched as the three men got more and more agitated.  
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”  
She looked over her shoulder at Theo, who gave her a deeply morose half-smile.  
“What?” she asked.  
“Them,” he replied, gesturing with his chin, “Putting their faith in him. Death bestows only one gift, and one gift alone. Isn’t it ridiculous, Hermione?”_

_Hermione....?  
....Hermione...?  
...Hermione...? _

_  
_ “Hermione!”  
  
She awoke with a choking gasp; _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ slipped out of her hands and fell with a _thud_ on the floor.  
“Hermione!” Harry’s face came into focus. He was flushed, bright eyed, and his hair was... dripping wet?  
“What’s wrong?” she croaked, “Are you alright?”  
“It’s okay, everything’s fine. More than fine. I’m great. There’s someone here.”  
“What do you mean? Who –?”  
And then she saw him, standing hunched and soaked in the middle of the tent, holding Gryffindor’s sword in his hand.

She ought to have asked questions… oh she had at least hundred questions… but she could only stare at the tense looking young man with fiery hair. She walked towards him, staring, _gaping_ , and with each step her wonder ebbed, and cool anger (which was a strangely contrary emotion,) took over. She stopped right in front of him, and he smiled nervously. His hands twitched, as though itching to reach for her.  
“You complete _arse_ Ronald Weasley,” she hissed lowly… dangerously.  
“Um, hey,” he mumbled stupidly. She sneered.

“Look, Hermione, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed, but Hermione had already walked away.  
Without looking back she said, “I’ll keep watch now, Harry,” and went out into the biting cold.

 

* * *

  
 

How was it that Harry, who’d been in a huff for _days_ after she’d accidentally broken his wand while _saving his life_ , had welcomed Ron back with such conviviality and enthusiasm?

Because _Ron_ has saved Harry’s life. Right. And he’d even given him a replacement wand.

They were back to being the best of friends, like nothing awry had ever occurred. Like Ron hadn’t said the most horrible things, like he hadn’t abandoned them at all. Hermione watched them wander about, smiling and chatting, foraging for berried like a couple of merry fucking wood dwellers from the small sunlit spot where she sat with an open book which she wasn’t reading.  
She felt, once again, like an add-on. There were Harry and Ron, reunited… and Hermione too, I suppose. With her nose in a book, of course, ha ha ha.  
There was an unforgiving pain in her chest; how she missed _her_ best friend. She missed him. She really, really missed him.

 _  
‘Hello,’_ she spelled on her Galleon.

For the first time since their unconventional correspondence began, Theo didn’t reply.

 

* * *

 

“Hermione! Come on. Just listen to me. _Please!_ ”  
“What do you want, Ron?”  
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m _so_... I’m really, really fucking sorry!”  
“ _Sorry?_ You crawl back here after weeks and weeks and say _sorry?_ I went running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back!”  
“I know! I... Hermione, I’m sorry, I’m really–”  
“Stop saying that! You think it’s all going to be all right if you just say sorry?”  
“Well, what else do you want me to say? I came back, yeah? I’m here, aren’t I?”  
“Yes. You’re here. Fantastic. Harry’s well pleased. Leave me alone.”  
“What about – are you... are you, er, pleased?”  
“What do you _think_?”  
“What can I do Hermione? What do you want–”  
“I want Harry to be happy. You’re here. So be it.”  
“Hermio –”  
“Fuck _off_ , Ronald.”

  
  
*  


  
_‘Hi. Sorry. Something came up.’  
‘Theo, please tell me you’re safe?’  
‘I am! Perfectly safe.’ _ –– _‘Did I worry you?’  
‘YES.’  
‘Shit. Sorry.’  
‘It’s alright. Just...’ _ –– _‘Keep the coin with you at all times please.’  
‘Aye aye, Captain.’ _

 

* * *

 

While Harry tried to levitate spoons with his new blackthorn wand, and Ron fiddled with a wireless, Hermione lay in her bunk immersed once more in _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._ On the page she was examining was a photograph of the letter that Dumbledore had written to Grindelwald. Her eyes travelled across the thin, slanting handwriting, ( _...for the greater good..._ ) and when she got to his signature at the end, she froze. The ‘A’ of Albus had been replaced by that same strange triangular eye-like symbol.

She jumped out of her bunk and rushed to Harry, saying, “We need to talk.”  
He cast a leery look at the book in her hand. “What?” he asked.  
“I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood.”  
He started, “ _Sorry_?”  
“Xenophilius Lovegood, Luna’s father,” she said calmly, “I want to go and talk to him.”  
“Er – why?”  
“It’s that mark, the mark in Beedle the Bard.  Look at this!” She held the book before him. “The signature... Look at the signature, Harry.”  
It took him a while to compute it all. In the meanwhile, Ron tried to ask, “Er – what are you –?” but she shut him up with a ferocious look.   
“It keeps cropping up, doesn’t it?” she said to Harry, “And since we can’t talk to Dumbledore or Grindelwald, we can ask Mr. Lovegood what it means. I’m quite sure this is important.”  
Harry considered her mutely for a few seconds. Then, looking grave, he muttered, “You just want to go see Nott, don’t you?”  
“ _What?_ ” she spluttered, stung, “Do you really think I’d do that? Make up a ridiculous excuse, drag you out of hiding...”  
“Hermione,” he reasoned, “we don’t need another Godric’s Hollow. We talked ourselves into going there, and –”  
“But it keeps appearing!” she rushed out edgily, “Dumbledore left me _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , how do you know we’re not supposed to find out about the sign?”  
“Here we go again!” Harry exclaimed in a long-suffering way, “We keep trying to convince ourselves Dumbledore left us secret signs and clues –”  
“The Deluminator,” Ron interrupted, “turned out to be pretty useful. I think Hermione’s right, I think we ought to go and see Lovegood. It won’t be like Godric’s Hollow –” (As if he knew _anything_ about that) “– Lovegood’s on your side, Harry. _The Quibbler’s_ been for you all along; it keeps telling everyone they’ve got to help you!”  
“I’m sure this is important!” threw in Hermione, “I’m sure we ought to know about this!”  
Ron clapped his hands together and said briskly, “I think we should vote on it. Those in favour of going to see Lovegood –” He raised his hand. In spite of herself, Hermione felt the smallest quiver of amusement... she put up her hand, too. “Outvoted, Harry, sorry.” Ron grinned.  
“Fine,” Harry grunted, but even he had the ghost of a smile on his face, “Where do the Lovegoods live, anyway?”  
“Luna told me... she’s the Secret-Keeper,” Hermione said, and took out Mr. Weasley’s map from her bag. “Their house is under the Fidelus charm, but I’m sure there’ll be some Death Eaters skulking around. We should apparate here,” she pointed at a dense looking grove on the map, “Harry, you stay under the cloak. If we do come across any Death Eaters, stun or confound them immediately. Okay?”  
“Okay,” said Ron bracingly, and Harry unenthusiastically.

 

* * *

 

  
_‘LISTEN.’  
‘Yes?’  
‘Tell Potter to end the bloody war already’  
‘Getting bored, are you?’  
‘Terribly. It’s all so tiring.’  
‘I’m sorry u r having such a tough time’  
‘Well then do something about it’ _ –– _‘I miss you buddy.’  
‘Do you now?’  
‘Fucking YES.’ _

Hermione beamed like an idiot.  


* * *

 

“Of course that’s Luna’s house,” Ron chuckled, “Who else would live in a place like that? It’s like a giant rook!”  
Hermione puckered her brow as she stared at the black tower-like structure behind which loomed a giant moon at three in the afternoon. “It looks nothing like a bird.”  
“I was talking about a chess rook. A castle to you.”

They approached the small mossy gate, upon which were nailed three signs, ‘THE QUIBBLER, EDITOR: X. LOVEGOOD,’ ‘PICK YOUR OWN MISTLETOE,’ and ‘KEEP OFF THE DIRIGIBLE PLUMS.’  
The Lovegoods had a charming garden, dusted with snow, poetically overgrown, and full of wild plants that she wished she could spend more time exploring. Neville would’ve loved it here, she thought wistfully. She could imagine what it might look like in spring… a lush, violent explosion of green, with Luna wandering about in floaty linen robes…  
Two large crab-apple trees, leafless but laden with bright red fruit arched on either side of the front door. As Hermione knocked, a tight ball of anticipation formed in her stomach. Her reason for visiting was utterly sincere, but god, Theo was here. He was here, just on the other side of the door. She’d be seeing Theo. Oh _yes._  
They heard footsteps, and slowly the door creaked open.  
“Oh!” gasped Luna. And again, “ _Oh!_ ”  
Hermione sprang forward and hugged her. “Hi, Luna,” she whispered.  
“Well… hullo,” Luna greeted, sounding like she’d quite recovered from the shock of seeing them, “Harry, Ron. What a lovely surprise. Do come in.”  
The room they entered was a semicircular sitting room, with one bright blue sofa covered with a print of tropical birds, and a pair of purple armchairs, and another one in magenta. The coffee table was yellow and dotted with red flowers. The walls depicted a jungle scene, _à la_ Rousseau.  
“Nice place,” said Harry with a grin.  
“Thank you,” Luna replied happily, “I painted the walls, you know. Please sit. It’s so lovely to see you all again...”  
While she was speaking, Hermione nodded vacantly as her eyes scanned the room. Where _was_ he? There was a moving iron staircase – much like a spiral-shaped escalator – in one side of the room... perhaps he was upstairs?  
“...Hermione.” She refocused her attention back on Luna, who was smiling. “He’s over there,” she pointed towards a door that was painted like the walls, and so was almost unnoticeable, “In the kitchen.”

  
She shuffled towards the door as though in a trance, like she was walking through something much denser than air. Gingerly, she pushed opened the door and stood stock still at the threshold.  
He was sitting with his back to her, at a (bright orange) table, working on something she couldn’t see. His hair was longer than she remembered, falling over ‘her’ scarf around his neck and brushing the top of his collar. Stepping into the room and letting the door close silently, she simply watched him for a few seconds. Then she gently cleared her throat.  
“Nearly done, Luna-love,” he said, “This batch is impossibly _fiddly_.”  
Hermione’s heart contracted at the sound of his voice. “Not Luna, sorry,” she said softly.  
His chair scraped back deafeningly, and he jumped to his feet and spun around. His mouth was hanging open as though he were silently screaming.  
“Hi, Theo,” she said with a grin.  
“Oh, bugger,” he choked, “What the _fuck_ did Xenophilius put in my tea this time?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“It was that grassy shite he puts in his pipe, wasn’t it? Fuck’s _sake_!” The rubbed at his eyes furiously, and then blinked at her.  
“What _are_ you raving about?” Hermione demanded.  
“You’re a hallucination, yeah? Damn that devious old madman to _hell_.”  
“Theo,” said Hermione steadily, “I am _not_ a hallucination.”  
“Heh. Right.”  
She rolled her eyes. With deliberate and resolute steps, she walked right up to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She rested her head on his chest and murmured, “See?”  
Slowly, his hands rose and landed on her back. “You’re real,” he breathed, “You’re here.” Suddenly, he pulled away, and gripped her shoulders. “You’re here!” he shouted, “What – Why – How the hell are you here?!”  
“Um,” she said, but then he hugged her again, much harder and tighter than before.  
“Holy Hippogriff dung! I don’t believe it!”  
Her giggle was muffled, and eventually she had to say, “Theo... you’re crushing me.”  
“Oh sorry.” He let go and they both sat, and Hermione finally saw what he had been bent over on the table.  
“What are _those_?”  
“Frumpleberries,” said Theo with a grimace.  
“They look revolting.”  
“They look like they taste. Where’s your baggage?”  
“Huh?”  
“Potter and Weasley.”  
“Oh. Ha ha. They’re in the other room, with Luna.”

“How are you,” they blurted simultaneously, and then laughed.  
“You first,” he insisted.  
“I’m... oh, do I have to? Fine. It’s been awful, and difficult, but I’m alive. I’m... okay.”  
“You look... _very_ skinny,” Theo frowned.  
“Look who’s talking.”  
“I’ll have you know,” he said with his nose in the air, “I am very muscular and fit. Ask Luna.”  
“No thank you.”  
“Humph.”  
“Your turn now,” she laughed, delighted at the lovely sullen expression he was wearing, “How are you?”  
“Great. My girlfriend’s dad wants me dead, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked out for him yet.”  
“You’re so dramatic.”  
“I am not!” he cried indignantly, “He’s an insufferable.... er,” he glanced furtively around the room, and lowered his voice significantly, “He’s an insufferable wanker. And I can’t even say anything, because Luna bloody well _adores_ him. It gets marginally better when Draco visits, because, obviously, he never holds back. Old Xeno hates him more than he does me.”  
“Dra – what? Malfoy visits?”  
“Yeah, when he has information for Remus. There’s a passageway between the Room of Requirement and Hog’s Head; Draco sneaks away at night. The choice was between coming here or the Burrow... well, not really much of a choice, if you think about it.”  
As hard as she tried, Hermione just couldn’t picture a _mondain_ like Draco Malfoy sat in that eccentric, riotous house at all. And once again, she was stunned by the reality of the world outside their little campsites. So much was happening... so many players... all struggling, striving, rebelling...

  
Theo’s hand gripped hers and pulled her back to the present.  
“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” he said with a soft smile.  
“Believe me,” she murmured, “I know exactly how that feels.”

 

* * *

 

Harry and Ron were getting a highly detailed explanation from Luna about all the elements in her mural when Hermione and Theo walked into the sitting room, and they looked exceedingly grateful to have it interrupted.

“All caught up?” Luna asked, “Good. Daddy is on his way down; he’s just bundling up the final lot of tomorrow’s edition.”  
 As she went to sit on a purple armchair, Hermione gushed, “We heard what your dad’s doing with _The Quibbler_... It’s amazing. So brave...”  
Luna smiled, “Yes. And it helps that we’re so well hidden, otherwise daddy says we’d have been killed a long time ago.”  
“Alright, Weasley... Potter...?” Theo muttered.  
“Yeah,” they both grunted.

There was a minute of awkward silence, after which Hermione saw (with a sinking heart) a broad, _evil_ grin break across Theo’s face.  
“Potter,” he crooned.  
“What?” said Harry suspiciously.  
“ _Potter._ ”  
“ _What?!_ ”  
“So.”  
“...So?! Have you lost your mind?”  
“So you want to be friends, eh?”  
_Oh god._ Harry’s groan drowned out Hermione’s. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, Nott –”  
“Call me Theo, Harry.”  
“ _Nott_. Can we just pretend all... that... never happened.”  
“Oh no! After all, you were so adamant –”  
“Theo, please,” Hermione begged.  
“No, no, no. How can I forget all those capitalised ‘ _yesses’_ and ‘ _seriouslies’_? So friends, yeah, Harry?”  
Harry buried his face in his hands.  
“What a _lovely_ idea!” Luna chimed, even as Ron burst out with, “What the hell is he talking about, Harry?”  
“I’m talking about _Harry’s_ plan to replace you with me, of course!”  
“What... _What_?!”  
_Oh god._

But somehow, the universe had a rare – such a rare – fit of compassion. Their ‘discussion’ was deterred by a shocked cry of “HARRY? RON? HERMIONE?!” from the foot of the spiral staircase.    
They all jumped, and gaped in absolute discombobulation at a wide-eyed, and very heavily pregnant Nymphadora Tonks.  
“What are _you_ doing here?!” Harry, Hermione, and Tonks shouted all at once.  
“Blimey, you’re _huge_!” said Ron with awe.  
“Yeah, Weasley,” Theo sniped, “That tends to happen when a woman is with child.”  
“Merlin, do you ever shut u–”  
“Typical that you show up,” Tonks ranted as she waddled over, “On the day that Remus is away on a mission. Oh _GAH_ ,” she moaned as she eased herself into an armchair, “Anyway... how are you? Where have you been? Why are you here? Is everything okay?”  
“We’re fine, Tonks,” Harry said reassuringly, “And we’ve been... pretty much all over England. We’re here to talk to Mr. Lovegood. It’s... well... you’ll see soon enough. But how are you here?”  
She mournfully rubbed her belly and sighed. “The Death Eaters came for dad. I wasn’t at home... I think that was deliberate...” She paused to lick her lips, “They tore the house down. Tortured mum and left her in... in... well, a _state._ Then they took dad away.”  
“He’s okay!” Hermione said hurriedly, “He got away. He was hiding out in Wales with Dean Thomas and Dirk Cresswell –”  
“WHAT? You saw him?”  
Ron shook his head, “Not exactly. We couldn’t reveal ourselves. But we heard them talk. He sounded... alright.”  
Tonks let out a sound that was made purely of utter relief. “Thank... thank... fuck... _Thank you._ ” There were tears in her eyes.  
“How’s your mother?” Hermione enquired.  
“Not good,” Tonks rasped, sobbing gently, “She doesn’t leave her room, doesn’t eat... I’d tell her about dad, but she’s finally  sleeping now after weeks...”  
Hermione reached across and squeezed her hand. “You know... Ron’s right. You’re huge. When are you due?”  
Tonks huffed a watery laugh and wiped her eyes. “Six weeks. Can’t bloody wait. The little terror’s a kicker. Apparently I was too –”

It was then that the elusive Xenophilius Lovegood finally made his entrance.  
“Mr. Potter,” he proclaimed with a bow (Theo rolled his eyes), “Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger. Good afternoon. Sorry for making you wait.” He strode over to a cabinet by the wall, and began tinkering with bottles. “Infusion of Gurdyroots for everyone?” (–Theo’s fingers clenched tightly around Hermione’s wrist –) “Ah, except you, of course, Tonks. It’s time for your bat milk brew.”  
“Ah! Xenophilius, do I have to?”  
“Yes, my dear. You will thank me when your child is born a seer. Now, Mr. Potter... how may I help you?”

 

* * *

 

Everybody had gathered in the garden to say goodbye.

 

The sun was a burning ember floating between two distant hills, turning the snow into gold. Outside the boundary of the Lovegood’s property, the Death Eater sentries that they’d stunned three hours ago were still snoozing in a heap on the ground.

Hermione and Theo stood slightly apart from the rest of the group.  
“Did you really come here to talk about a children’s story,” Theo mumbled.  
Hermione huffed. “Please don’t. I feel stupid enough as it is.”  
“If you say this jaunt was a waste, I will shove you into a bush,” he warned.  
 “Of course not,” she said with mock solemnity, “I finally got a chance to sample some Gurdyroot infusion!”  
Theo stuck his tongue out at her. “Awful, innit?”  
“Truly,” she agreed, “I feel _sincerely_ sorry for you now.”  
“Why, thank you.”  
They hugged, and there was nothing sweet about the sorrow of parting. She then hugged Tonks and Luna as well, nodded at Xenophilius, and took her place between Harry and Ron.  
“Stay safe you three,” said Tonks.  
“And you,” Harry nodded, “All of you.”  
“Will do, friend,” Theo quipped with a sarcastic salute.

Laughing, Hermione took hold of Harry and Ron’s hands. The last thing she saw before disapparating were Theo and Luna, arm in arm, smiling at her.

 

* * *

 


	37. Thirty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from DH.

_If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.  
_

Hermione was sure that all prophecies were, in effect, self-fulfilling. They didn't so much tell the future as much as influence it. They triggered events, planted ideas in people's minds, and hence, inevitably proved themselves to be true.  
Take a pinch of arithmancy, a handful of vague symbolism, liberally douse them in concentrated theatrics... and there you have it: A recipe for a simple prophecy. Harry was the Chosen One because Voldemort had decided to believe Trelawney's prediction. And once he'd decided that, everything else fell in accordance.  
There was a reason Time-Turners could only take you into the past – there was no possible way of establishing a concrete future. Hermione remembered reading an article in _The Theoretical Review_ that had claimed that (with certain modifications,) a device _could_ be conceived that constructed a future based on probability and the users own predilections. Yet, it categorically stated that it would be catastrophic to allow the creation of a timeline based on just one person's vision. ( _No, really?_ )

Now, if this... this practicality... made her _limited_ , _narrow_ , and _close-minded_ , then so be it. Xenophilius Lovegood was welcome to go off on a glorious quest, riding on the back of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, to pull the all-powerful elder wand out of a (resurrection, undoubtedly) stone, and gleefully lord over his court of blibblering whatsits.

 _  
"_ _All right… Say the cloak existed. But what_ _about the stone, Mr. Lovegood? The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?"  
"What of it?"  
"Well, how can that be real?"  
"Prove that it is not."  
"But that's _ – _I'm sorry, but that's completely ridiculous! How can I possibly prove it doesn't exist? Do you expect me to get hold of_ – _of all the pebbles in the world and test them? I mean, you could claim that anything's real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody's proved it doesn't exist!"_  
"Yes, you could. I am glad to see that you are opening your mind a little."

  
A stone that brought back the dead: preposterous! A wand that could vanquish one and all: beyond fanciful. And if surviving was as simple as hiding under a powerful Invisibility Cloak, they already had everything they needed.  
Inane, woolly, insufferable man... she completely understood why Theo regarded him with such scorn.

 

The biggest problem at the moment, however, was that Harry had bought into the legend of the Deathly Hallows completely. In fact, when he spoke of them, his face and tone had an unnervingly greedy quality about them; she knew it to be the inception of a whole new fixation for him.  
He believed he owned the cloak, was convinced that the stone lay in his snitch, and so he hungered for the wand... the wand he believed You-Know-Who was currently seeking as well. Harry desired to be the master of death. Was there anything more frightening than that? Hadn't Voldemort's devastating pursuit of immortality taught him anything?  
Bizarrely enough, it was Ron who brought a bit of equability to the table. With staggeringly uncharacteristic diplomacy, he agreed that Harry's theory sounded very plausible, but insisted that Hermione was right about needing to focus on the Horcruxes. This policy of appeasement did _not_ appease Harry.

"But don't you understand?" he said urgently, passionately, "If we have the Hallows, nothing else will matter! We'll be invincible!"  
"We still need to destroy the Horcruxes, Harry!" Hermione seethed, "You can't conveniently ignore them!"  
"Um, I think she's right," Ron mumbled.  
"God... look at the bigger picture! This obsession with Hor–"  
"Obsession?" Hermione spat fiercely, "We're not the ones with an obsession! We're the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!"  
" _The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death_ ," Harry recited superciliously.  
"Oh, I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to be fighting?"  
He threw his hands up in the air and walked away.

 

* * *

 

Days bled into days at a furious pace, like time was a feather caught in a gale. But so many things remained constant, that even as _weeks_ went by, it hadn't felt like they'd moved forward by even an hour.  
Harry could not – would not – stop thinking about the Hallows. In fact, his preoccupation had taken an even more dangerous turn: He'd begun to deliberately try and infiltrate Voldemort's mind to figure out his whereabouts, and consequently discover the location of the Elder wand. Hermione had fought with him about that on three separate occasions. Not one of those occasions led to anything positive.  
As a stark contrast, there was Ron. A new, improved version of Ron made of sunshine and optimism. Fired up by his triumph over Slytherin's locket, he spent most of his time pouring over his father's map, picking out places where he thought the remaining Horcruxes might be. On six separate occasions, the three of them ventured out to explore his supposition... Not one of those occasions led to anything fruitful.  
And Hermione? She read. She read words that had meanings, which fell upon each other like dominoes across pages... meanings that she, perhaps, picked up on. A little.

They were, once more, stuck in a state of complete cluelessness. _Well, I hope it's nice and toasty in hell, Professor Dumbledore._

 

* * *

 

"Ron... _Ron_!" Hermione hissed, "Get... _down_." She pulled him back into a crouch and glared. "Are you insane? Do you want them to catch us?"  
"Bloody hell, calm down! I was just having a look..."  
"And giving them a look in return?"  
"They didn't fucking see me!" Ron retorted in a furious whisper, "I just –"  
"Both of you shut up!" Harry growled lowly.

They were hunkered down behind an old, dilapidated cabinet inside the Riddle House. After an hour of futile Horcrux-hunting, they were just set to leave when a gang of Snatchers barged in and forced them to duck for cover.  
There were five of them – grungy droogs in tattered black robes – and they were obviously more than a little intoxicated. Swaying and teetering, they banged about the room talking in loud voices. One of them was singing a song about a man who'd lost his lover to a Kelpie.

" _Oh me bonnie floaterway wiff the ol 'orse..._ "

"Fuckin' runt took a chunk off me leg! Blimey! It 'urts!" said one with a grimy rag tied around his calf.

" _...me pretty lamb ter the bottom o the sea..._ "

"Oh button it. We'll 'ave yer ter a 'ealer tomorrow," replied another tall one with Jim Morrison hair, "Need ter sleep now. There's beds upstairs, yeah then, eh, guv?"

"... _He took 'er away, the demon 'orse..._ "

The largest, leader-type Snatcher slurred, "Aye, there's beds. Let's go. Cop off yer arse, right Sammy. We need ter be back in business early t'morrow! Struth!"

" _...'er entrails be flotsam, ridin' em waves fer'all eternityyyy..._ "

  
Hermione, Harry, and Ron waited while the Snatchers ascended, (there were many _thuds_ and _ooofs_ involved,) and then shot out of the house the second all was quiet.

 

* * *

 

She had the _History of Magic_ open on her lap, and she was looking for any and every mention of the Elder wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, etc. Her own wand was clamped between her teeth as she attempted to gather her hair into a bun.  
She jumped up in the air – wand, book fell to the ground – when, most unexpectedly and horrifyingly, she felt... something... tickle the back of her neck. She spun around and saw Ron, holding a thin strand of her hair between two of his fingers.  
"Er, sorry," he muttered shyly, "You left this out..."  
He walked closer, (far too close,) and wound that strand around her bun, while she stared dumbly at the buttons on his shirt.  
"There," he whispered thickly, "Perfect."

Hermione backed away rapidly, barely rushing out a "thanks," before jogging out of the tent. She felt irritated and uncomfortable and...

...Outside, Harry was muttering and twitching while sat on a tree stump with his eyes closed...

...and tired. She felt so very tired.  
_Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything, tired with the world's weight she had never chosen to bear.  
_

 

* * *

 

In Wimbourne they had another run in with some Snatchers.  
The only reason they were there was because Ron felt that Voldemort _might've wanted to live there, I mean, you never know_! A foolish proposition, but it was all they had.

Harry, fortunately, was under his invisibility cloak while Hermione and Ron stood back to back with seven wands trained on them. It happened in a flash: One moment the Snatchers were leering down at her, and in the next, they were flat on their backs, unconscious.  
Harry gripped her shoulders hard when they'd apparated away to a distant, rainy marsh.  
"The blackthorn didn't work Hermione! I tried and... Shit... but I got them all! I stunned them _all_ wandlessly! I got them all!"  
With a slightly hysterical laugh, Hermione hugged him tightly.

 

* * *

 

The rain was unrelenting. The sound of water-pellets falling on the roof of their tent was the sound of hundreds of machine guns on a rampage. Said roof kept springing leaks, so the three restless inhabitants kept having to run around casting _reparos_.

Hermione was meticulously polishing Gryffindor's sword until the blade shone like a mirror. Something burned in her pocket, and instantly her fingers sought the DA Galleon within.  
_  
'HALLOW, my dear buddy,'_ it read.  
Rolling her eyes, Hermione replied, _'Sod off.'_  
_'Don't be unpleasant.'_ –– _'Why don't you visit again?'_ –– _'Ask Xeno where the legendary Hopping Pot's at'  
'SOD. OFF.'_  
_'No._ –– _'All well?'  
_ Her wand hovered over the coin for a moment... um... _'Well enough?'_ –– _'What's happening at your end?'_  
_'_ _Draco's here.'_ –– _'_ _Tonks is chasing him round the kitchen.'_  
'Why?'  
'Wants him to feel his unborn cousin's kicking prowess'

Of course Hermione pictured it. Harry and Ron stared at her like she was insane when she began giggling to herself.

 

* * *

 

With nothing better to do, they were moving on a daily basis. Sometimes just a few miles away, and sometimes to the other side of the country. The process of packing up and setting up their camp was ingrained in Hermione's muscle memory.

_...I've got some real estate here in my bag..._

 

* * *

 

In Chiddingfold Forest, Lee Jordan's voice rolled out of Ron's wireless:  
" _It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell. A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that muggleborn Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been travelling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news. Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a muggle family of five has been found dead in their home..._ "

Why had they told Tonks that her father was well? Why had they made her happy and gotten her hopes up? What business did they have saying it when they'd only briefly heard the man's voice _months_ ago? Hermione felt like she might be sick.  
And Dean... oh god. He had to be alive. She couldn't even think of the alternative.

There was Kingsley: " _Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties_..."

A bittersweet stab of relief; mum and dad were far, far away from all this.

Finally, Fred: " _...Point is, people, don't get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he's out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don't count on him being a long way away if you're planning to take any risks. I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!_ "

And then they were laughing.  
"Good, eh?" Ron chortled.  
"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed.  
Hermione sighed, "It's so brave of them... If they were found..."  
"Well," said Ron, "they keep on the move, don't they? Like us."  
Harry rubbed his hands together eagerly. "But did you hear what Fred said? He's abroad! He's still looking for the Wand, I knew it!"  
" _Harry_ –"  
"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol–"  
"HARRY, NO!"  
"–demort's after the Elder Wand!"  
Ron was on his feet, screaming, "THE NAME'S TABOO! I told you, Harry! _I told you_ we can't say it anymore – we've got to put the protection back around us –quickly – it's how they find –"

But before Harry or Hermione could as much as move, there came a thunderous _Crack!_ from outside the tent.  
"Come out of there with your hands up! We know you're in there! You've got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don't care who we curse!"

" _Fuck!"_ Ron growled through gritted teeth.  
There was a rustling outside... someone was tearing through the tent flap... Hermione's heart had stopped beating. With barely a thought, she turned her wand onto Harry; " _Aculeatum!_ " He doubled over, and his face was rapidly swelling up right before her eyes...  
They were in the tent now, Snatchers, three in number and, shit, oh fuck, one of them was Fenrir Greyback. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and his sick tongue flicked out and dragged over his upper lip.  
"Well well," he rasped, and grabbed her by the arm. She resisted – clawed at his hands, put all her weight behind pulling away – but to no avail.

Their wands were apprehended, and they were all dragged outside, where two more Snatchers stood waiting.  
"That's it then, eh, mate? Three kids? Pathetic 'aul this evenin'," said one.  
("Gerrof me, gerrof me, GERROF ME," screamed Ron.)  
"Oh I don't know. That girl's a ravver not so bad 'un..."  
"Back off, Scabior," Greyback barked. He pulled Hermione closer and traced his nose down her cheek, "This one's mine. Delicious girl... what a treat... I do enjoy the softness of the skin..."  
She whimpered; her stomach turned. It was truly terrible how primal fear was one of the few things that her system just didn't seem to get desensitised to.  
"Get – Off – Her!" Ron bellowed, and immediately received a blow to the face.  
" _No!_ " Hermione moaned.  
"Search the tent," Scabior ordered.

 

*

 

Their false identities seemed to have convinced the band of Scary Men, and Hermione, Harry, and Ron were bound and thrown onto the forest floor with their backs to two other captives.

"Anyone still got a wand?" Harry whispered.  
"No." Hermione and Ron replied.  
"This is all my fault," Harry lamented, "I said the name. I'm sorry –"  
"Harry?" the person behind her gasped, and she desperately tried to twist and get a look, because his voice... his voice...  
" _Dean_?" Harry spluttered.  
"It _is_ you! Well, shit! If they find out who they've got –! They're only looking for truants to sell for gold but –"  
Dean stopped speaking as Greyback and two other Snatchers came closer.  
"Well, Ugly," he spat at Harry, "If you're telling the truth, you've got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father, _Mister Dudley_ , will reward us just for picking you up."

"Hey!" someone shouted from just outside their tent, "Look at this!"  
A Snatcher built like a bulldozer barrelled over, cradling Gryffindor's sword. Well... they were truly done for now. Truly truly truly done. Hermione couldn't breathe –  
"Ve–e–ery nice," Greyback purred, examining the sword, "Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?"  
"It's my father's," Harry said too quickly, "We borrowed it to cut firewood–"  
"' ang on a chuffin' minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!" Scabior cried, tearing out of the tent, " _'ermione Granger, the Mudblood who is known to be travelling with 'arry Potter_."'  
Hermione Granger's muddy eyes closed in horror. Done for. Done. Fucking. For.  
Greyback squatted in front of her, peering at her face. "You know what, little girly," he crooned, "This picture looks a hell of a lot like you."  
"It isn't!" she yelped, "It isn't me!"  
"...known to be travelling with Harry Potter." Greyback looked at the three of them in awful silence for a long moment, (Oh, they were _done for._ ) "Well, this changes things, doesn't it?" He shifted so that he was crouched in front of Harry, and asked in a dangerously mellow voice, "What's that on your forehead, Vernon?"  
He lifted a finger and touched –  
"Don't touch it!" Harry roared.  
"I thought you wore glasses, Potter?"  
"I found glasses! There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait—" Bulldozer-Snatcher disappeared back inside, and then returned, brandishing Harry's glasses.  
The glasses where then rammed onto Harry's face.  
Greyback hummed in delight; "It is! We've caught Potter!"

They were so, so done for.

 

* * *

 

It was terribly dark and Hermione could hear music. Not some vaguely cadenced buzzing in her ears, no; there was a full-fledged orchestra in her head. Every note, every treble and sharp was so clear...  
The doomed progression down the driveway was set to the tune of Berlioz's _March to The Scaffold._

It was most likely a quiet night. Most likely, the sound of footsteps and the mewls of startled peacocks was the only noise for miles. But the music in Hermione's head was at its crescendo. Loud and wild! Symbols and trumpets! She wanted to pretend her wand was a baton, and she was a wild-haired conductor. Fuck being a good man in a storm – she was a woman on the edge of an _ataque de nervios_.

Greyback's filthy talons had broken through the skin on her arm.

Malfoy Manor erupted suddenly from between decorative foliage. It was indubitably a beautiful building – Jacobean architecture, diamond-paned windows, tiny peaked turrets – but in Hermione's head, the symphony morphed into the Addam's Family theme. Fittingly, the large front doors opened with a dramatic creak. Hermione almost _hoped_ that Narcissa Malfoy would snap her fingers.  
Instead she demanded, "What is this?"  
"We're here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" Greyback announced.  
"Who are you?" Mrs. Malfoy sneered coldly.  
"You know me," the feral werewolf rumbled, "Fenrir Greyback! We've caught Harry Potter!"  
Harry was shoved into the light spilling out from inside the Manor.  
"I know 'es swollen, ma'am, but it's 'im!" said Scabior. "If you look a bit closer, you'll see 'is scar. And this 'ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who's been travelling around with 'im, ma'am. There's no doubt it's 'im, and we've got 'is wand as well! 'Ere, ma'am –"

Tinkling chimes and little claps.

Narcissa Malfoy lowered her head to examine Harry. "Bring them in," she said.  
They were shoved into a long hallway where twin rows of Malfoy ancestors bared their teeth at them.

 _Everyday_ _it's a-getting closer,  
Going faster than a rollercoaster _

The drawing room was resplendent. A crystal chandelier bathed the vast, vault-like space in golden light. The walls were dark purple and full of gilded mirrors.  
Hermione was tossed from Greyback to Scabior. Her head was forced downwards, (a gorgeous Afghani carpet covered the floor,) and Scabior gripped her tightly around the ribs, his fingers pressed against the underside of her breasts.  
"What is this?" Lucius Malfoy's icy, imperious voice called out.  
"They say they've got Potter," his wife replied, "Draco, come here."

 _Come on baby, don't fear the reaper_  
_Baby take my hand, don't fear the reaper_  
 _We'll be able to fly, don't fear the reaper_  
 _Baby I'm your man_

_La, la, la –_

Hermione's head was jerked back with a forceful tug of her hair, and there before her, pale faced and panic-stricken, was Draco Malfoy.  
She'd never been this close to him before.  
"Yes _–_ yes," Mrs. Malfoy was saying, "She was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

Draco looked at the Granger girl, and the Granger girl looked at Draco. _Come on_ she pleaded, _Please, please, please._  
Could he hear her? His eyes widened, just a touch... oh but they were _grey_... And unbidden, the sound of Chopin (as played by Malfoy,) filled her head.  
_Please._  
Chopin, crashing into ... _don't fear the reaper_ , cut through with static... oh god. She wanted to slap her hands against her ears.  
Malfoy's grey eyes... searching...  
She let out a whisper of a sob, and he turned his face away. The golden light in the room fell on his profile, throwing the distressed twist of his mouth into prominence.

"I ...maybe ...yeah."

"But then, that's the Weasley boy!" the elder Malfoy shouted, pulling Ron by the scruff of his neck, "It's them, Potter's friends _–_ Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son… what's his name–?"  
"Yeah. It could be."  
Then Draco Malfoy turned his back to them.

Suddenly, the drawing room door flew open, and a new face pushed itself in front of Hermione's. Bellatrix Lestrange's heavy-lidded eyes considered her penetratingly, until a glimmer appeared in their inky depths.  
"But surely," she murmured, "this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"  
"Yes, yes, it's Granger! And beside her, we think, Potter!" Lucius Malfoy exclaimed, "Potter and his friends, caught at last!"  
" _Potter_?! Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

A kerfuffle broke out regarding who exactly would get the honour of summoning The Dark _Lord_. Hermione panted, waiting, because _it won't be long, yeah, yeah, yeah,_ but while they bickered and nattered, they were all still alive…

And that's when Bellatrix spotted Gryffindor's sword in the bulldozer-Snatcher's grubby hands.

 

* * *

 

Pain.  
Had she ever really known pain? Pain; pain that drives you insane, pain like the rain –

_I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?_

" _CRUCIO!_ "

Pain. Daggers are mundane, broken limbs - don't complain.  
Oh what are those? Not painful – not at all.

"WHERE DID YOU GET THIS SWORD? WHERE?"  
"We found it—we found it—PLEASE!"  
" _CRUCIO!_ "

Pain. It was inside her, it was a part of her, it _was_ her.  
_Thine are the lidless eyes of night that stare upon our tears;_ mum and dad, glassy-eyed and blanched, washed upon some nameless shore... Theo, Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, Neville...

"YOU'RE LYING, FILTHY MUDBLOOD, AND I KNOW IT! YOU HAVE BEEN INSIDE MY VAULT AT GRINGOTTS! TELL THE TRUTH, _TELL THE TRUTH_! _CRUCIO_!"

…hanging limply like strange fruit on a barren tree.  
Pain. Oh god, the pain. Make it stop. Let me go. PLEASE let me go –  
_Bismillah, NO… we will not let you go!_  
Let me go.

"WHAT ELSE DID YOU TAKE? WHAT ELSE HAVE YOU GOT? TEL ME THE TRUTH OR, I SWEAR, I SHALL RUN YOU THROUGH WITH THIS KNIFE! _CRUCIO_! _CRUCIO_!"

Pain like rain, pain like fire, pain like every unfulfilled desire; pain like Dix's Verwundeter; pain like rain, pain like acid, pain that's absolute and tacit; pain like _pain_ like pai _–_

"HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY VAULT? DID THAT DIRTY LITTLE GOBLIN IN THE CELLAR HELP YOU?"  
"We only met him tonight! We've never been inside your vault... It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"  
" _CRUCIO_!"

Electric pain, eclectic pain. Arising pain, surprising pain, utterly paralyzing pain...

And

Then

It

Stopped

  
"Draco, fetch the goblin! He can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

  
And

Everything

Was

Black

 

* * *

 

 _From the blackness emerged a thread._  
_Fine and delicate like spider silk, it drifted towards her... but what was she? One with the shadows, one with the blackness... she was nothing._  
 _Her disembodied, nebulous sense of self watched the thin strand undulate._

_But wait – she had a form. She had a head, and on it was hair, because she was dead certain that something was stroking it. A large hand – a familiar, warm, soothing hand..._

_Dad? Dad?_

  
"Dah –!"

She blinked up at the face looming above hers; it wasn't her father's, but one that was nearly as comforting.  
Theo's eyes were tired and foggy, his nose was red, his hair was a wreck, but his lips pulled into a soft, tremulous smile.  
"Hello, darling," he rasped.  
"Wha – Wha –" Hermione breathed.  
"Shhh," he whispered, "You're safe. It's alright."  
Safe? What? She frowned... but then she remembered. Malfoy Manor – Bellatrix – _Fuck._ Theo, however, anticipated her move, and pressed her back into bed the moment she tried to jump out of it.  
"Hermione! _Calm down_!"  
"No! No – I – Harry! Ron! ...Dean!"  
"They're FINE," Theo asserted, "They're all fine. Please, Hermione. Listen to me. You got away. You _all_ got away!"  
"We... got... away," she gasped, " _How?_ "  
"I'll tell you in a bit. First... I need to get Fleur. I'm under orders, see?"  
"Wait... Fleur?"  
"Yeah, this is her and Bill's place. Now stay right here, okay?"

She looked about her in the interim. It was a pretty little room she was in, the walls were unfinished and roughly whitewashed with tiny white shells embedded in the dados, turquoise curtains hung in front of the windows, and a large vase full of yellow gerberas sat on the teak dresser.  
She was safe.

Fleur bustled in with a tray laden with phials, with Theo following close behind. She looked like she'd been sleeping, yet still, in her silk dressing gown, she was radiant.  
"'Ermione," she said kindly, "'ow are you?"  
"I'm... fine?"  
"Zat cannot be true," Fleur sniffed.  
"No, really... I... I'm not in pain," she said with wonder, "I'm _not_ in pain."  
Fleur pursed her lips. "'Ave zis. Eet will make sure ze pain stays away –" She handed Hermione some pale blue potion, "– and zis –" A colourless pungent potion, "– and zis –" A bright orange potion. The last one tasted like sweet orange syrup.  
"Where is everyone?" Hermione asked.  
"Azleep," answered Fleur, "Eet's four in ze morning."  
" _What_!" Hermione sputtered, "You mean I've been out for –"  
"Eight hours, oui."  
"Holy shit."  
Both Fleur and Theo smirked at that.  
"You're telling _me_?" Theo demanded, "You've been comatose. I'm the one who's been sitting at your bedside... Eight hours of looking dour... it's probably given me wrinkles."  
"I 'ave a potion for zat, too."  
"Oh, you're a goddess, Fleur. Truly, a divine being, a _spectacular_ woman –"  
"Stop eet, silly boy," she laughed pertly, "'Ermione, you will need three more doses... I will see you in a few hours."  
"Thank you so much, Fleur. Goodnight."  
"Yeah, sweet dreams, Fle–"  
Theo's ardent wishes died out as Fleur had already left the room. Aiming an exasperated smile at him, Hermione said, "Et tu?"  
"What?"  
"Just like every other male, you turn into an idiot around her."  
He reared back resentfully. "Um, _no_. Actually, as you very well know, I'm _always_ an idiot."  
"Oh right," she conceded laughingly.

His look of good humour abruptly changed to one of anguish.  
"Oh Hermione," he bemoaned, "How could you get caught? Fucking _hell_."  
She lowered her eyes and stared at the pale blue duvet covering her legs. "It was an accident. Ha – someone said You-Know-Who's name, and –"  
"Come off it," he spat, " _Someone._ I know it was Potter. He admitted it."  
"It was an accident!"  
"Obviously it was an _accident._ I know he bloody well wouldn't call on the Snatchers because he fancied some company. I'm just saying he's too boneheaded to think before he fucking speaks!"  
"What happened, Theo?" she mumbled thickly, "How did we escape?"  
He sighed. "Well, the moment you arrived at Malfoy Manor, the Order's contingency plan kicked into action –"  
"Contingency plan?" Hermione parroted, puzzled.  
"Well, yes!" Theo exclaimed incredulously, "The three of you really do live in your own little bubble, don't you? Did you honestly think the Order wouldn't have something planned for if... _when_... you heroes got yourself caught?!"  
"Oh," she whispered weakly.  
His hardened expression melted a bit as he sat down on the chair beside her bed. Taking her hand in his, he continued, "Draco informed Lupin as soon as he could – yes, _Draco_. How can you still look surprised?!"  
"I thought... At the Manor... He sold us out..."  
"For Merlin's sake, what else could he have done? He would've hardly been able to do any good if he'd blown his cover! So, the moment he could get away, he informed Lupin, who in turn rallied the rest of us, and –"  
"You as well?"  
"Of course!" he said indignantly.  
"Who else – "  
"Luna, Shacklebolt, some Weasleys, Jones, Diggle... We called Dobby to get us through the Malfoy wards –"  
"Wait! Dobby the House-Elf?"  
"Exactly how many Dobby's do you know?" he huffed, "Yeah, Dobby the House-Elf. Anyway, when we got to the Manor... you were already unconscious... Draco had just let Potter, Weasley, and Thomas out of the cellar...  
"Then, well, we charged. There was a big, old melée, while Dobby brought people back here in turns. We had them outnumbered... But fucking Bellatrix called You-Know-Who. We were out of time. Panicked. And then, Dobby saved us. He was... unbelievable. He dropped a blooming chandelier on Bellatrix. He disarmed – he actually _disarmed_ – Narcissa. He brought us here, I think, _seconds_ before You-Know-Who reached the Manor."  
Hermione was reeling. She swallowed a few times, before shakily whispering, " _Wow._ "  
"Yeah," Theo said, but uncomfortably... there was still something he hadn't told her.  
"What?" she asked at once.  
He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. "Dobby... didn't make it."  
No. _No._ "NO," she groaned.  
He shook his head; "Bellatrix chucked her knife at him just as he was disapparating. It... met its mark."  
"Oh _god,_ " she moaned, tears pooling in her eyes, "How – Harry –?"  
"Not good. Kept trying to shake him awake..." he sighed, "We spent nearly the entire night digging his grave manually. Luna made a speech... Potter thought he'd have liked that."  
"Yes," she sobbed, "He would've."  
"I'll take you to see it... later..."  
"Yes, please."  
"...but you need to sleep now. Hell, _I_ need to sleep." He stood up, and then bent to lightly kiss her forehead.  
"Theo," she murmured, "Thank you."  
He laid his palm against her cheek, and said, "Thank _you_ for not dying."

 

* * *

 

When she awoke, daylight was filtering through the curtains, and it had turned the whole room greenish-blue. She got uncertainly onto her feet, her legs wobbled and she had to grasp the bedside table to keep from falling. Slowly, she inched towards the window and looked outside. Bill and Fleur's house was perched on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by stalks of lavender. The sky was pale blue, and beneath it was the sea, frothing and churning.

After a quick shower, she felt rejuvenated and much more stable. Stark naked, she peered closely at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was a scrape on her knee, nail marks on her arm, and multiple shallow cuts on her neck. She wanted to erase them completely; she wanted no residues of that awful night to claim any part of her body... that's when she realised her wand had been taken away by Greyback.  
It was true what they said – the feeling of losing one's wand is akin to losing a limb.

 

* * *

 

It took her twice as long as usual to climb down stairs. She stood for a moment in the airy hallway, listening to the sound of the crashing waves. The muted drone of conversation emitted from a room to her left, so that's where she went.  
It was a fairly small kitchen, with a fairly small table that was crowded with people pouring over breakfast. There were Harry and Ron, Theo and Luna, Bill and Fleur, Dean and... Ollivander? Perplexed Hermione knocked on the doorjamb to get their attention.  
Harry got to her first and wrapped her up in his arms. "How are you?" he said, "You were amazing – coming up with that story when she was hurting you like that –"  
"I'm okay," she replied softy, and then Ron took hold of her. He didn't say anything, but held her long and tightly and when he lightly brushed his lips against her cheek she pulled away quickly.  
She squeezed into a tiny open space between Dean and Luna, both of whom patted her back and smiled.

"It's good to see you, Dean," she said, helping herself to some hot scrambled eggs.  
"Yeah," he grinned, scratching the back of his neck, (his arm, she noticed, was heavily bandaged,) "Not exactly how I'd prefer to be reunited with my friends, though."  
Hermione laughed, "What, trauma and torture aren't your idea of fun?"  
"Nah. I say we grab a pint or something next time."  
"Sure."  
"I should warn you, Thomas," Theo threw in, "Drunk Hermione will prove to be only a _little_ less traumatising –"  
"Shut up, Theo."  
"And drunk Hermione _and_ Potter – ooooh la. You might not survive it –"  
"Shut _up_ , Nott."  
"'ERMIONE," Fleur yelled over Dean, Theo, Bill, and Luna's laughter, "'urry up and eat please. Eet's time for your potions."

  
But suddenly, the loud sound of someone apparating came from outside. Instantly, they were all alert and on their feet, (with the exception of Ollivander, who made even blinking look tiring,) and jumbled out of the room to the main door. Hermione missed her wand desperately.  
"Who is it?" Bill called, pressing his ear against the wood. No reply. " _Who is it_?" he tried again.  
Nothing.  
Tentatively, he peeled back the door, wand gripped tightly in his hand...  
He gasped. Then he charged outside.

The rest of them all crowded around the open door. Hermione grabbed onto Harry's upper arms for leverage and peered over his shoulder. She saw a cloaked figure lying limply on the ground just beyond the large veranda. Bill scooped the wilted, unconscious stranger up, and pulled one of their arms over his shoulder; their head lolled forward limply.  
"Who is that?" Ron shouted, but Bill didn't seem to hear.  
Hermione was unexpectedly jostled into Harry's back as Theo tore through the lot of them, looking _very_ white in the face. He took the stranger's other arm and braced one of his own around their waist...  
The stranger's hood fell back.

Draco Malfoy had arrived at Shell Cottage.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need a palate cleanser, I recently wrote a very silly, very fluffy drabble called Fly Me To The Moon.


	38. Thirty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from DH.

**  
  
** Though the hallway was open and draughty, the air felt thick. Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Luna stood in a line by the wall, all with tension in their postures.  
Bill and Theo had carried the unconscious Malfoy upstairs, and Fleur had hastily followed, with her medical supplies in tow. Then, old Ollivander had wheezed and shuffled his way up three steps before Dean hurried to help him climb.  
“I hope he’s alright,” Hermione muttered, wringing her hands uneasily.  
Ron clicked his tongue dismissively, and brusquely demanded, “What the fuck is he doing here?”  
“He’s hurt!”  
“Yeah, and? Couldn’t his mummy take care of him?”  
“Ron! He’s been helping us...”  
 “Please. You were out cold, but he didn’t do much _helping_ at his precious manor. Just stood there like a sodding chump.”  
Luna pushed away from the wall and faced Ron while wearing an abnormally sharp expression. “He’s done a lot, Ron,” she said forcefully, “He used to show up hurt at my house too. But... it was never this bad...”  
She bit her lip and gazed up the staircase.  
Then Dean reappeared and sat himself on the lowest step. “Fleur’s working on him, I think,” he said, “The door’s closed, and I couldn’t hear anything...” 

All of a sudden, with great thundering treads, Bill charged down the stairs with a wild look about him. “They’re planning to attack the Burrow,” he cried frantically, “We have half an hour to move everyone to Muriel’s... I have to go...”  
“ _What?!_ ” Ron spluttered, “How –”  
“Malfoy had this in his hand,” Bill chucked a wad of parchment at Ron, as he pulled his boots and cloak on. Ron held the parchment out so they could all see; _Attack on Weasley home 10 AM_ , it read, written in a hand Hermione was vaguely familiar with.  
“I’m coming with you,” Ron stated strongly.  
“Yes,” Harry began, “Me t –”  
“No,” Bill declared.  
“ _Bill_ –!”  
“Harry, _no_. You know what we all went through to get you here! And you’re going to STAY here. Oh, stuff it, Ron. There’s time enough right now to get everyone to safety... It’s a good thing that Ginny’s on holiday… If she’d been at Hogwarts they could have taken her before we reached her…”  
With that Bill walked out of the cottage. They heard the _crack_ as he disapparated.  
Ron let out a shuddering sigh and fell back heavily against the wall. Thinking about the Weasleys being in the line of fire made Hermione’s insides squirm too, and she touched Ron’s arm an offered a weakly consoling, “They’ll be okay.”  
But he shook her hand away and growled, “Sure. You’re more worried about Malfoy anyway.”  
“Ron, that’s _not_ true –”  
“Yeah, yeah,” he sniped, and then stomped off towards the back of the house, possibly to escape into the back garden.

Two tiny pulsing spots of pain developed in Hermione’s temples as she slid down to the ground. Head pressed against her knees, she groaned. Ron simply did not understand that Theo wouldn’t ever be the same again if something were to happen to Malfoy.

Then Ginny’s face bloomed in her mind’s eye, and she was overcome with guilt.

Dumbledore could rave about the glory of love all he wanted, but sometimes, Hermione wished that she really could stop herself from caring. From worrying. From being god damned incapacitated by anxiety.  
In the midst of her agonizing, Harry sat on his heels next to her… she was surprised; she thought he’d have gone after Ron…

“Listen, Hermione,” he whispered, “While everyone’s busy, we should go talk to Griphook… and Ollivander.”  
She paused, wiping her tears (where did those come from?) on her sleeve, and blinked at him.  
“What about?”  
“Just… You’ll see.”  
“But what about Ron?”  
“We’ll fill him in later. Come on.”

 

* * *

 

Griphook the Goblin hadn’t bothered to wash, and he was splayed defiantly on Fleur’s pretty floral bed sheet when Hermione and Harry entered ‘his’ room. In one hand he held the sword of Gryffindor, and he used the other to stroke his short, pointy black beard. His beady little eyes watched as Hermione sat on the chair by the dressing table, and Harry stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry to bother you,” said Harry, “How are your legs?”  
“Painful, but mending.”  
It was astonishing, how quickly his eyes were darting between his two unwanted guests. He looked hostile, yes... but there was a definite undercurrent of curiosity in his gaze.  
“Griphook,” Harry commenced gravely, I need to ask –”  
“You rescued me. A goblin,” Griphook interrupted bitterly.  
“What?”  
“You brought me here,” he spat, “ _Saved_ me.”  
“Well, I take it you’re not sorry?” Harry asked with annoyance.  
“No, Harry Potter,” Griphook replied slowly, “but... you are a very odd wizard.”  
“Right. Well,” Harry muttered, “I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to me...” He stalled, and the Goblin frowned, “...I need to break into a Gringotts vault.”

 

*

 

  
During the short journey between Griphook’s room and Ollivander’s, Hermione grabbed Harry’s wrist and asked in a zealous whisper: “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? There’s a Horcrux in the Lestrange’s vault?”  
“Yes! Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we’d been in there; she was beside herself. Why? What did she think we’d seen, what else did she think we might have taken? Something she was petrified You-Know-Who would find out about… I don’t think he’d have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though…. probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for anything you want to hide, Hagrid told me... except for Hogwarts... Come on – Ollivander now.”

 

*

 

  
Ollivander’s room was crammed with single beds, five of them to be precise, and Hermione inferred that it was where all the boys... the men... slept.  
It was dark inside; all the curtains had been tightly drawn, and the weary wandmaker was lying on the bed furthest from the window, as though even the slightest hint of light would cause him pain. Spending a year in a cellar would do that to a person.  
“Mr. Ollivander,” Harry murmured as he sat on the empty bed next to his, “I hope we’re not disturbing you terribly...”  
“My dear boy,” the skeletal old man croaked, “I thought I was doomed to die in that place. If you hadn’t come, I would never have escaped. I am happy to help you in any way I can.”  
Harry nodded, and from his mokeskin pouch he took out the broken fragments of his wand. “Mr. Ollivander,” he beseeched, “Can you mend this.”  
Ollivander surveyed the pieces carefully, and then shook his head with no little regret. “No. I am sorry… very sorry… but a wand that has suffered this degree of damage cannot be repaired by any means that I know of.”  
Harry hung his head for a moment; Hermione yearned to comfort him, but didn’t know how. Nonetheless, he recovered soon, and then took out two more wands.  
“Can you identify these?”  
Ollivander took the first in his hand and held it close to his clouded eyes; “Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. This wand belongs to Bellatrix Lestrange.”  
“And this one?”  
“Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was the wand of Draco Malfoy.”  
Harry started. “Was? Isn’t it still his?”  
“Perhaps not. If you took it –”  
“–I did–”  
“–then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its allegiance will change.”

Harry pursed his lips. This, apparently, was exactly the preface he’d hoped for. The situation was primed for a conversation about wand loyalties, and how they are won... in particular, how the loyalty of the most powerful wand in the world may be won.

 

* * *

 

Bunches of light purple lavender, tall shoots of vivid blue viper’s bugloss, clusters of pretty pink sea thrift, stalks of bright yellow mullein, multiple shrubs of spindly green rosemary dotted with pale blue flowers, wrinkly silvery-green clumps of sea kale... the tiny garden outside Shell Cottage had a wild, rustic charm.

Ron was sitting atop the low boundary wall, swinging his legs vacantly. As he saw Hermione and Harry making their way towards him, he waved somewhat sheepishly.  
“Hey,” he began, then cleared his throat, “Er, sorry for having a go at you, Hermione.”  
She hopped up on the wall next to him and bumped his shoulder. “We saw Bill in the kitchen on the way out... Seems your family’s all settled in at Muriel’s.”  
“Hah,” he barked, “Not for long. Fred and George aren’t going to let things remain _settled_. You have no idea how much they love fucking with that old bat.”  
“Oh, I can imagine,” Hermione smiled.

They both then looked at Harry, who hadn’t partaken in their amusement. He was staring out at the heap of dirt under which poor Dobby lay. So Hermione took it upon herself to tell Ron about everything they’d gleaned from their conversations with Griphook and Ollivander.  
“Wow,” Ron breathed, looking awestruck, “So the Elder Wand really does exist.”  
“It would...” Hermione muttered grudgingly, “...seem so.”  
Then Harry spoke, and as he did, he kept rubbing his scar distractedly. She knew immediately that he was half inside Voldemort’s head, and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself from railing at him.  
“Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago,” he said in a hushed tone, “I saw You-Know-Who trying to find him. When he tracked him down, he found that Gregorovitch didn’t have it anymore: It was stolen from him by Grindelwald and –” Harry paused and lightly shook his head, “– and Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. Then, at the height of his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he duelled Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand.”  
“ _Dumbledore_ had the Elder Wand?” Ron exclaimed, “But then – where is it now?”  
“At Hogwarts,” Harry muttered, eyes shut.  
Ron sprang off the wall; “But then, let’s go! Harry! Let’s go and get it before he does!”  
Harry opened his eyes and looked dazedly at Ron. “It’s too late for that.” He pressed his fingers against his forehead. “He knows where it is. He’s there now.”  
Ron turned purple. “Harry!” he raged, “How long have you known this – why have you been wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone – we could still go –”  
“Ron,” Hermione cut in sharply; Harry had fallen to his knees.  
“No,” he moaned, “Hermione’s right... Dumbledore didn’t want me to have it... didn’t want me to take it. He wanted me to get the Horcruxes... I’m not supposed to ...I’m supposed to get the Horcruxes....” He slumped forward in a faint.  
“Harry!” Hermione cried, leaping to his side, “Ron... Ron, help me!”  
Together, they laid him on his back on the soft grass.  
“Shall we take him inside?” Ron asked, his brow puckered.  
“No,” she sighed, “There’ll be too many questions. We’ll just have to wait it out here.”  
And so they did.

 

* * *

 

The universe had such a perverse way of maintaining its supposed balance.

There was an evil, unhinged woman who had a powerful wand, and she used that powerful wand to torture a girl, and two days later, the girl was given that same wand to use.  
Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. Unyielding. When Hermione looked at it, all she knew, heard, and felt was _crucio crucio crucio._  
Something horrible bubbled under her skin.  
If help hadn’t arrived, that wand would’ve done to her what it had done to Frank and Alice Longbottom. Or if luck had been on her side, it would have done to her what it had done to Sirius.  
She picked it up, reluctantly, and it felt wrong and vile and icy cold, even though the rational part of her knew that, just like any other wand, it was as good or bad as the one who wields it. “ _Engorgio,_ ” she chanted, aiming at a beautifully formed thrift flower. It grew, but all its petals fell off – all its beauty was lost.  
That wand was too accustomed to destruction... she hated it. She really _hated_ it.

  
Setting it down on the garden table, she sat on a wrought iron chair and pulled a small corked vial out of her beaded bag. The single strand of deep black hair within was like a helminth primed to suck the blood out of any and everyone. How lucky it was that Fleur still hadn’t gotten around to washing their clothes... how lucky it was that they’d found Bellatrix’s hair caught in the fibres of Hermione’s sweater. Lucky, lucky, lucky.  
She’d get the chance to inhabit the body that had tormented her. _Seriously, naff sense of justice, oh world._

It was then that the one who claimed to be (as dictated by semantics,) the creator of the warped, callous world they lived in, joined her.  
“Hi, Theo,” she greeted softly.  
“Hello,” he replied, sitting next to her.  
“How is he?”  
Theo ran a hand down his tired-looking face. “Better. Woke up for a bit, then Fleur potioned him up again, so he fell asleep.”  
Hermione watched him as he chewed his tongue and scratched at the uncharacteristic scruff that lined his jaw. “But he’ll be... all right?”  
“Yes.”  
“What happened, exactly?”  
“The usual,” Theo shrugged with affected airiness, “You-Know-Who went a bit potty after the Chosen Potty escaped his clutches for the millionth time. Then Draco decided to use the last of his strength to apparate here so that Bill could be warned about the attack on the Burrow.”  
The gaze he fixed on her was both expectant and challenging, and she had to look away. There was a lump in her throat made of guilt, empathy, and admiration – but she could neither expel it nor swallow it down. It sat in her windpipe until her lungs were liquid; long after Theo had left her and gone back inside.

 

* * *

 

Hermione, Harry, and Ron stood in the shadowy landing talking in heated whispers. They’d just had a short, unpleasant meeting with Griphook, where the goblin, sitting like a proud Lord on his overlarge bed, had refused to let them see the map of Gringotts that he had drawn, until they promised to let him have Gryffindor’s sword. It was a setback they hadn’t anticipated at all.

“He’s having a laugh,” Ron scoffed, “We can’t let him have that sword.”  
Harry looked at Hermione uneasily, “Is it true? Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?”  
“I don’t know,” she muttered dejectedly, “Wizarding history often skates over what the wizards have done to other magical races, but there’s no account that I know of that says Gryffindor stole the sword.”  
“Codswallop. It’ll be one of those goblin stories,” said Ron indifferently, “about how the wizards are always trying to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn’t asked for one of our wands.”  
“Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron! They’ve been treated _brutally_ in the past.”  
“Well, they aren’t exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they? They’ve killed plenty of us. They’ve fought dirty too.”  
“But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent isn’t going to make him more likely to help us, is it?” Hermione snapped.  
 “Okay,” he said, throwing his hands up like he couldn’t deal with how difficult she was being, “how’s this? We tell Griphook we need the sword until we get inside the vault and then he can have it. There’s a fake in there, isn’t there? We switch them, and give him the fake.”  
“He’d know the difference better than we would!” Hermione said with disbelief, “He’s the only one who realized there had been a swap!”  
“Yeah, but we could scarper before he realizes –”  
Well, apparently, her glare still held some power, because Ron’s jaw snapped shut and his head lowered. “That... is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross him? And you wonder why goblins don’t like wizards, Ron?”  
“Alright, alright!” he growled, “It was the only thing I could think of! What’s your solution, then?”  
“We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable.”  
“Brilliant, I’ll go and get one of our ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.”  
As Hermione and Ron glared at each other, Harry spoke up – “Maybe he’s lying. Griphook, I mean.  Maybe Gryffindor didn’t take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history’s right?”  
“Does it make a difference?” Hermione sighed.  
“Changes how I feel about it,” Harry muttered, ’We’ll... tell him he can have the sword after he’s helped us get into the vault – but we’ll be careful to avoid telling him exactly when he can have it.”  
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, “We can’t –”  
“He can have it,” Harry said over her, “After we’ve used it on all of the Horcruxes. I’ll make sure he gets it then. I’ll keep my word.”  
“But that could be years!”  
“I know that, but he needn’t. I won’t be lying... really.”  
“I don’t like it,” Hermione said angrily.  
“Nor do I, much,” Harry confessed.  
“Well, I think its genius,” Ron chirruped with a grin, “Let’s go and tell –”

 

Suddenly, the door at the opposite end of the hallway flew open with a bang. And there, pale and lean, in striped pajamas and bare feet, stood Draco Malfoy in his considerably diminished glory. He was glowering at Harry; his entire frame seemed to be trembling with strain.  
“Give me my wand,” he rasped dangerously.  
It took Harry a few seconds to gather his wits... then he squared his shoulders and said, “No.”  
Malfoy’s eyes flashed. He took two steps forward and levelled the wand he was holding at Harry.  
“I wasn’t _asking_ , Potter. Give. Me. My. Wand.”  
Theo and Luna appeared behind Malfoy, looking hassled.  
“It’s not your wand anymore, Malfoy,” Harry said loftily, “Winners, keepers. Who lent you theirs?”  
“My mother.”  
Harry laughed, which really wasn’t the best thing to do in such situations.   
“ _Expelliarmus_ ,” Malfoy bellowed, but Harry cut him off with a quick shield charm. “I’m not fucking around – give it back. Now.”  
“I told you,” Harry snapped, “it isn’t your wand anymore! It won’t answer to you now... I won it from you – ”  
“ _Won it_?! You _snatched_ it out of my hand –”  
(“Draco,” Theo called pleadingly, but was completely ignored.)  
“Well, you were attacking –”  
“I was not attacking ANYONE. _Expelliarmus!_ ”  
Harry’s shield charm held. Ron sniggered, “Right. You were cowering in a corner. Served you right, having your wand taken away.”   
Silence iced over the walls, the stairs, the railing, and them. Malfoy turned his enraged gaze on Ron, and asked in a voice that was fittingly frosty, “What would you have had me do, Weasley? _Attack_? Maybe I should have helped dear Aunt Bella while she had her fun with Granger here?”  
“Shut the fuck up!” Ron thundered, “You should have fought with us! You’re supposed to be on our side, aren’t you? I knew that was all bullshit – You coward!”  
“COWARD?” Malfoy stalked forward, brandishing his mother’s wand, and Ron quickly whipped out his own, “You wanted me to fight _with_ you? Given myself away? You fucking bellend... who’d have told you about the plan to burn your pathetic little hovel to the ground then? Your family would all be dead now. Or worse. That pretty little sister of yours would be _very_ popular among –”  
“ _Confingro!_ ” roared Ron, “ _Aduro!_ ” shouted Harry, and “ _Protego!_ ” cried Theo, Hermione and Luna.  
“Stop it!” Hermione shrieked, “STOP!”  
_“Incisura!_ ”  
“BACK OFF, WEASLEY!” Theo snarled, storming ahead to stand next to Malfoy.  
“ _Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus, EXPELLIARMUS!_ ” Malfoy was unrelenting, and Harry was forced to put his shield back up.

There was a strange suctioning noise, a flash of blue light, and all four boys were pinned against the walls.  
Luna, evidently, had had the good sense to run down and call Bill.  
“You _idiots_ ,” he panted, glaring at each of them in turn, “What the hell is wrong with all of you?”  
With the exception of Theo, they all struggled against the invisible force that held them.  
“Sorry, Bill –”  
“– this arsehole Death Eater –”  
“– my wand back –”  
“NOT a fucking chance!”  
“Shut up!” Bill bellowed. And they did. Hermione was more than a little awed by the forcefulness the usually laidback man could summon.  
“Bill,” Ron began ardently, “You need to get rid of this Death Eater here –”  
“ _Not another word_! I’m not going to ask you to get along, because obviously that involves more maturity than you are capable of showing. But I will NOT allow you to tear my house down. We’re all on the same side here... Yes, Ron... nobody here is a Death Eater.”

 

“Mr. Malfoy,” came a quivering voice from across the hall.  
They all stared as Ollivander shuffled out of his room and stood before Malfoy. “Please calm yourself. I will make you a new wand... as soon as I’ve recovered my strength.”  
Malfoy blinked, and slowly, all fury drained away from his face. “I – erm – I don’t –”  
“Young man,” Ollivander continued, “You showed me kindness during the darkest hours of my long life... I would be honoured to make you another wand.”  
“...Thank you,” Malfoy muttered, frowning like he didn’t quite believe the old man.

 

After a long moment of silence, Bill let his prisoners down. Malfoy stormed back into his room, Theo followed listlessly, Luna cautiously... Ron shoved past Bill and Harry and disappeared downstairs. Sharing a hopeless look with Hermione, Bill went on to help Ollivander back into bed.

  
And that left two – Hermione and Harry – staring uncomfortably at all the closed doors.

“Tea?”  
Fleur grinned up at them from the foot of the stairs, next to a nervous looking Dean and, oh... sure. Why not? Tea!

 

* * *

 

“Honestly, Fleur,” Hermione beseeched, “You and Bill should take this room. Luna and I will be perfectly comfortable sleeping in the living room.”

From her table-transfigured-into-a-cot, Luna nodded in fervent agreement.  
“Nonsense,” Fleur chided, “You are our guests. You must ‘ave ze room.”  
“No, please –”  
“I weel not ‘ear it,” Fleur added firmly, “Sleep well.”  
And with that, she breezed out of the room, closing the door behind her.  
“Oh well,” Hermione sighed.  
“You tried,” Luna smiled consolingly, “Goodnight, Hermione.”  
“Goodnight.”  
Luna curled up under her duvet and Hermione doused the lamps... it took three tries with Bellatrix’s wand. She wandered over to her bed, but didn’t get in; she wasn’t ready for sleep yet. Her mind was burdened, and she knew that if she closed her eyes, she risked reliving that awful night at Malfoy Manor. So she strolled over to the window and gazed outside, where _slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silvery shoon._  
The scene outside was all silver and black. Beyond the garden wall, at the edge of the cliff, stood a tall, male figure facing the swirling sea, and it was like the moonlight itself had been spun into fine gossamer strands and placed on his head. A few minutes later, he was joined by another tall, Theo-shaped figure. They watched the sea, and Hermione watched them.

 

* * *

 

Yawning like a lion, (...because it was a very wide yawn; she was in no way alluding to her Gryffindor-ness, thank you very much...) Hermione dragged her feet all the way down to the kitchen, desperate for a large mug of very, very sweet coffee.

Luna had been all sunshine and butterflies in the morning, skipping off to wake Theo in her _very special way_ , the details of which Hermione had expunged from her mind. She stopped dead at the kitchen door, and dread pooled in her very empty belly. Couldn’t she catch a break? Why did Malfoy have to be the only person at the table. Where were Bill and Fleur? Dean? Ollivander. _Anyone_.  
He appeared to be engrossed in reading the paper, and she considered waiting for someone else to show up, but her stomach and head both protested so vehemently at that notion that she straightened her spine, and marched her way to the chair furthest away from Malfoy.  She didn’t look up to see if he’d acknowledged her presence.  
The French press was full and steaming, much to Hermione’s relief. The delicious smell of coffee filled the room as she poured the liquid into her mug. Then she added milk... just the right amount... and then sugar... sugar...  
Sugar...?  
_Oh honey honey.  
_ The sugar was at the other end of the table, tightly wrapped up in long, pale fingers. Slowly, her eyes lifted up to Malfoy’s face, and he was looking right at her. His expression was utterly blank, but Hermione recognised a dare when she saw one. Her blood boiled a little.  
“Pass the sugar, Malfoy.”  
Her inflection was crisp and clear; perhaps a little higher than necessary, but two out of three wasn’t bad.  
“I think,” Malfoy said snootily, “You forgot a word there, Granger.”  
 “ _Please,_ ” she uttered through gritted teeth.  
“Hmm,” he spun the canister around thoughtfully, “If I give it to you, will you thank me?”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I just really want to know what earns your gratitude,” he continued lightly, “I mean, I’ve saved your life on two occasions so far, and haven’t received a word of thanks. So will handing you this little canister do it?”  
Hermione stared at the ridiculous, coolly inquisitive facade he was presenting her with. She had expected, if they spoke at all, another explosive showdown... but this... this was... _what?  
_ “Just pass me the damned sugar, Malfoy.”  
“Damned?” He raised his eyebrows, “Is it _damned_ because I’m holding it?”  
“ _Accio sugar,_ ” Hermione growled, thankful for her wandless summoning skills. She was considerably less thankful for Malfoy’s seeker skills, as his hand shot out and stopped the canister from zooming towards her.  
“Sorry, Granger. I am a selfless man, it’s true, but there are limits to my generosity.” His mask had slipped, he looked explicitly angry.  
“You’re insane!”  
“And you’re an intolerable little ingrate!”  
“So that’s why you’re doing all this then?” Hermione spat, “You want to be showered with appreciation and accolades and –”  
“You don’t know the first thing about why I’m doing this!”

He was flushed in his anger, and his mouth was turned down. For a fleeting second, Hermione considered just saying it... considered just thanking him... but she couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form – they simply wouldn’t – not when he was looking at her the way he did when he said _Mudblood_.

“You’re pathetic.”  
He was on his feet instantaneously. “I saved your life,” he rumbled.  
She stood up, too. “Well, bully for you!”

 

“Oi, hey, hey! What’s this here?”

Theo and Luna walked slowly into the kitchen, looking bright and lively.  
“Just what I like to see early in the morning,” Theo quipped as he pulled a chair out for his girlfriend, “Two of my favourite people looking like they want to kill each other.” He paused, as though an unexpected thought had struck him, “That’s what it was, right? You weren’t about to jump at each other and have it off, yeah?”  
“THEO!” two voices - one high, one low – cried, harmonized by their tone of horror.  
Hermione sat back down quickly; she would never, ever in her whole entire life look at Malfoy again.  
“I was just making sure,” Theo said defensively, “Thin line, and all that.”  
“You’re an arse,” Malfoy snapped, and in her head, Hermione agreed with ardour.  
“Draco, could you pass me the sugar?” Luna asked.  
It couldn’t be helped, Hermione looked at Malfoy. Again, she found him looking back at her.  
“What, Luna... didn’t I give you more than enough sugar earlier?”  
Malfoy’s face twisted in a way that surely mirrored her own. “Here,” he barked, pushing the canister towards Luna.  
“Thank you, Draco.”  
He – _bugger it all_ – smirked, and Hermione looked away. Luna began humming _Greensleeves_.

  
With many a thumps and bumps, them of the ungraceful gait - Harry, Ron, and Dean - appeared at the kitchen door, and like Hermione, they froze.  
“For fuck’s sake,” Theo lamented, “Just come sit down. Show Bill that you really are capable of behaving like adults.”  
Ron’s ears turned red, Harry scowled, Dean sniffed, but they all (surprisingly) obeyed.  
“Where are Bill and Fleur?” Hermione asked.  
“Muriel’s,” Ron muttered, “Needed to restock their potions stash.”

There was a long stretch of silence, during which everybody busied themselves with their mugs (and Hermione finally got hold of some sugar.) There must have been moments in her life that had been more uncomfortable than this, but she couldn’t remember them.  
“So,” Theo drawled eventually, “What’s next, my young heroes?”  
“What d’you mean?” Ron demanded pugnaciously.  
“I mean, what are your plans? I doubt you’re going to stay here for much longer.”  
“None of your fucking business.”  
“Alright,” Theo pronounced, looking down his nose at Ron, “Just keep in mind that I’m coming with you.”  
“NO,” shouted Hermione, Harry, Ron, and Malfoy.  
“Oh,” Theo gasped, looking most unconvincingly startled, “Er, actually, I am.”  
“Absolutely not,” declared Hermione and Malfoy.  
“Listen to me,” Theo said, suddenly terribly serious, “In the past two days, I have come _this close_ to losing both my best friends. I’m not going to let that happen again. I AM going with you.”  
“– Theo –”  
“And you’re what?” Harry said, “Some kind of... Super-Wizard? If you’re with us, nothing bad will happen?”  
“Yes,” Theo snapped, “I’m also extraordinarily intelligent and astonishingly virile.”  
“Twat,” Harry muttered.  
“Um, Theo,” Hermione hedged, “I really don’t think –”  
“I don’t _care_!” He slammed a fist on the table, “I can’t just sit around anymore, while you... you... Hermione, please. I _have_ to come with you. And – Merlin, just listen to me – I’m not dead weight! I can duel! And while I’m not some sodding _Super-Wizard_ , I can help!”  
“These three here,” Malfoy cut in, “Are the epitome of hare-brained, asinine, Gryffindor recklessness. Since when did you become suicidal, Theo –”  
“Well, Draco, they’re obviously in desperate need of a Slytherin sidekick.”  
“We don’t need _you_ ,” Ron grumbled.  
“Yeah,” Harry seconded, “We’ve been managing just fine –”  
“Oh _sure._ Fine. You got yourself caught by snatchers and Hermione nearly died.”

Harry and Theo glared at each other across the table. There was, however, a glint of that old guilt in Harry’s eyes that was the albatross around his neck. Hermione knew that he’d conceded a beat before he said, “Okay, listen...”  
“ _What_?!” Ron spluttered.  
“...So here’s the plan...”  
“ _HARRY?!_ ”

 

*

 

  
“You’re all barmy,” Dean breathed after Harry had finished, “Can I come too?”  
“ _No._ ”  
“Well, then!”  
“We can’t have a small army barging into Gringotts.”  
“You’ve got polyjuice, yeah?” Theo asked. Harry nodded. “Well, excellent. I have a few strands of my father’s hair.”  
“You just carry those around?” Ron asked, appalled.  
“For emergencies,” Theo affirmed.  
“Bloody weird.”  
“Excuse me, as my father’s heir, I am entitled to some of his hair.”  
A groan went around the table. Luna giggled.  
“That,” Malfoy said, “Wasn’t funny the first time you said it, and it hasn’t been funny the subsequent four-hundred times.”  
“Luna laughed,” said Theo insolently.  
Malfoy arched his brow. (Hermione stopped herself from doing the same just in time.)  
“If you’ve got your father’s hair,” Ron slated, “Why don’t you go watch over Malfoy instead?”  
Theo opened his mouth, but Malfoy held up a hand before he could speak.  
“No,” he said, “Let me, please.”  
“Go on.”  
“See, Weasley, the Dark Lord and his followers may not be as brilliant as you, but I assure you that they _will_ notice if suddenly there are two Nott Seniors  in their midst.”  
Dean, Luna, and Theo laughed, and... Hermione bit the insides of her cheeks.  
Shaking his head, Harry looked at Malfoy from the corner of his eye, and after clearing his throat asked, “We’re right, aren’t we? There’s something in the Lestrange vault?”  
Malfoy nodded once, sharply. “Something that scares her shitless.”  
   
 

* * *

 

  
Later that day, in the early evening, Ollivander left. He was moving to Muriel’s house where Molly would be able to take better care of him.

Exactly thirty hours later, when the stars were just beginning to dot the sky, Bill walked into the cottage with a slim parcel that he handed to Malfoy.  
“Your new wand,” he said, and laughed when Malfoy’s eyes widened.

Malfoy shredded through the paper enthusiastically, and then, with great reverence, he beheld the glossy stick that emerged. He drew an arc over his head, conjuring a stream of twinkling golden dust that reflected in his awe-stricken eyes.

Hermione turned away, overwhelmed by bitter, _bitter_ envy. 

 

* * *

 

Bracing herself, she sat at the edge of her bed and called out to Luna just as she was settling into hers.

“Yes, Hermione?”    
“Look,” she ventured, “I’m sure if you talked to Theo, he might agree to drop out of our... um... operation. He would listen to you.”  
“Why would I do that?” Luna asked.  
“He’s... I mean... he’s leaving you behind...” Hermione stammered, wincing at herself.  
“Yes,” Luna agreed, “And that makes me sad, but I trust you to keep him safe. You will do that, wont you?”  
“Of course! With everything I have! But you’re... okay... with...”  
“Have you heard of Amazonian Atar Pixies?”  
“Um... no?”  
“Well, they’re very rare. And they have a very special power: They reveal your soulmate.”  
“Soulmate,” Hermione repeated. Well, there went her attempt to have a serious conversation.  
“Yes. And I’m almost sure that you are Theo’s soulmate.”  
“Luna...”  
“People have the wrong idea, you know. Soulmates aren’t your romantic ideal. They’re the person you have the strongest bond with. It _can_ be romantic, yes... but it can also be platonic, filial, maternal...  
“I thought it was Draco, at first; but then I saw the way he lights up around you... Come to think of it, Theo’s heart is big enough for two soul mates,” Luna finished with a smile.  
“Right,” Hermione murmured, for it was the only thing she could think to say.  
“I know Theo loves me, Hermione. And I love him. And that is why I can’t ask him to stay.”

 

* * *

 

Bill held up his goblet of wine and he gushed, “To Teddy Remus Lupin... a great wizard in the making!”  
“To Teddy!”

Hermione had never seen Lupin beam so. He was walking on air. He went through four helpings of wine in quick succession, before finally insisting he had to leave.  
“Goodbye, goodbye – I’ll try and bring some pictures in a few days’ time. Draco, would you come by before you return to Hogwarts? Dora really wants you to meet Teddy.”  
“Yeah, alright,” Malfoy agreed, his manner just short of credibly nonchalant.  
“Give Tonks our love,” Hermione said.  
“Of course. Well. Goodbye.”

They all watched him walk across the veranda, down the rubbly path to the boundary wall... the spring in his step was just lovely.

 

*

 

  
The drinking didn’t stop after Lupin had gone. They were all just so glad to have a reason to celebrate. By and by, Fleur went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, and Hermione followed wanting to help...  
“Non please. I prepare meals by myself, zank you very much!”

So she trundled back into the living room, and found that Ron was the only one there.  
“Where,” Hermione asked, “has everyone gone.”  
Ron took a large sip from his glass. “Bill wanted a private word with Harry... I think he knows we’ve made some sort of deal with Griphook; isn’t too happy about that. Griphook slipped away ages ago. Everybody... else went to sit in the garden.”  
“Shall we go join them?”  
“No.”  
“Oh, come on, Ron. At least try and –”  
“No.”  
“Well, fine. But I’m going.”  
He shrugged. “Then go.”

  
The small group in the garden looked up when Hermione joined them, of which three offered her smiles, and one a haughty raised brow.  
She sat on the empty wrought iron chair next to Dean, across from Luna, Theo, and Malfoy.  
“Guess what, Hermione,” Dean said, “Lupin’s going to take me to see my family day after.”  
“That’s wonderful!”    
“Yeah,” Dean sighed, staring out at the sea with narrowed eyes, “My dad just woke up from a coma.”  
“What happened to him?” Luna asked carefully.  
“Death Eaters. They went after him just after I ran away,” he said in a low, gruff voice, “Right outside the magistrate’s office, in full view of about a hundred steel mill workers who were protesting out there. He’d gone to offer them legal representation... Honestly, I don’t know how he survived... All because he has the shit buggering misfortune of being my father. And he isn’t even my father, really. God knows where that arsehole ran off to.”

Nobody knew what to say. Twilight simmered around them, a wash of Payne’s grey shot with pink, hovering over ever-moving waters. The distant screeching of seagulls harmonised with the metrically gushing waves.  
“He always says, ‘Dean, fight for what’s right, and everything will be fine.’ What a load of bollocks, yeah?” he added, louder and clearer than before, “He’s fed me so much bullshit... for _years_ I believed that my real father was Nelson Mandela.”  
A loud, surprised laugh tore out of Hermione’s throat, and she slapped her palm over her mouth in horror. She turned wide, guilty eyes towards Dean, but he was grinning.  
“S’alright. He’d also convinced me that our postman was an Ukranian spy.”  
Glad that she was free to be amused, Hermione said, “Mine told me the scar on his chin was from when Johnny Rotten had punched him in the mouth. Later I found out that he’d simply walked into a pole.”  
“Mine told me the empty bulb sockets in our house where government installed surveillance cameras,” said Dean.  
“My dad told me that Thatcher was secretly a cannibal,” Hermione counteracted.  
“My dad told me that if you leave cheese in water overnight, it turns into milk.”  
“My dad told me money plant leaves are universally viable currency.”  
Malfoy muttered, something something “ _muggles_ ,” but it was drowned out by Dean and Hermione’s chuckles.  
“My dad,” Theo said loudly, “Told me that his personal House-Elf was a child-devouring Erkling. I didn’t sleep for months.”  
Now that wasn’t funny at all, but for some reason, the laughter swelled.  
“That’s _terrible_!” Hermione choked over gasping peals of mirth.  
“I KNOW,” Theo cackled, “He also told me that I was... I was.... a _dung beetle_ that he’d transfigured into a little boy, and if I’d set even a toe out of line, he’d turn me back into one.”  
“My father,” Malfoy intoned, (even he was wearing a small grin,) “Told me it would be a really brilliant idea to pledge eternal fealty to an evil, sadistic, ophiophilistic tyrant.”  
“Oafy-wha – ?” Dean wheezed, laughing; still laughing.  
Malfoy’s shoulders were shaking as he went on, “It’s my fault really, for believing him. This is the man who, before first year, told me I was to befriend Potter as he was going to be the next Dark Lord.”  
They were in hysterics, actual hysterics...  
Then: “My dad,” Luna piped up, “Hasn’t ever told me a single lie.”

...And they exploded. For a moment, Hermione was worried that Luna’s feelings might be hurt, but the girl was watching Theo throw his head back and cachinnate with rapt adoration. Dean had tears in his eyes, and if, maybe, they were not all laughter-induced, this moment was exactly what he’d needed.  
Giggling and gasping into the back of her hand, Hermione got inexplicably caught up in the bizarre sight of Malfoy laughing, not meanly, not contemptuously, but genuinely. He was all bright eyes, and white teeth, and rosy cheeks, and it was...  
Unsettling.  
Yes, that’s what it was. Unsettling.

 

* * *

 

“By the way,” Malfoy asked two days later, “How exactly do you plan to double-cross a goblin?”

They were all holed up in Theo and Malfoy’s room, pouring over their plans for the twentieth time.  
“Um,” said Harry, “We’re not sure about that yet.”  
“Wonderful,” Malfoy carped.  
“Truly,” Theo added.  
“Well, do you have a better idea then?” Harry demanded angrily.  
“Sure,” Malfoy replied glibly, “Not trying to double-cross a goblin.”  
“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed before she could stop herself, “ _Thank you_!”  
Then she bit her lip in dismay.  
A slow, _evil_ grin spread across Malfoy’s stupid face. “Why, Granger,” he drawled.  
“Shut up. That’s not what I –”  
“You’re _welcome_.”  
“Shut up!”  
“No, really, I –”  
“Can we get back to work?” Ron snapped.

 

* * *

 

Hermione waited till the last possible moment before downing the tar like substance that Bellatrix’s hair had turned polyjuice into. It was the worst thing she had ever tasted – no exceptions.

She felt the change happen; her limbs grew, her hair turned stringy, her face felt... heavier. She didn’t look down as she changed into black, velvet robes.  
She glanced out the window, and in the semi-darkness of dawn, she saw a sliver of her new face reflected in the glass: A ripple of black hair, a single hooded eye.  
“ _Crucio,_ ” she whispered, and it came out in Bellatrix’s low rasp.

It was time to go; it was time to go.

 

*

 

Hermionetrix was trying very hard not to lose her temper as she went about altering Ron’s appearance with a bit of transfiguration.  
“I don’t like the beard too long”  
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, this isn’t about looking handsome”  
“It’s not that, it gets in the way! And I’d like my nose a bit shorter...”  
_Jesus Christ._

“There!” she said finally, “how does he look, Harry?    
Harry looked him up and down. “Well, he’s not my type, but he’ll do. Where the hell is Nott?”  
“Here!”

His voice was harsh and steely, nothing like she was expecting. Nott Sr., had bequeathed nothing but his jaw line to his son, which was a very good thing.  
“You look awful,” Hermionetrix proclaimed.  
“Me?!” _Not-_ Sr. spluttered, “Look at you!”  
“Would you like me to kiss you, Theo?” Luna asked sweetly.  
“Looking like this? NO!”  
“I don’t mind...”  
“What the fuck, Luna! NO!”  
“We are wasting time,” Griphook grumbled over Ron’s sniggers.    
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “Let’s go...”  
“Just... one moment, Harry,” Hermionetrix whispered. She walked briskly over to Malfoy, who’d been standing a small distance away, eyeing them all stonily. He watched her approach him with a sneer.  
“Um,” she said.  
“What?” he countered.  
She breathed in, deeply. “Thank you, Malfoy. For... everything.”  
But his sneer remained. “I don’t know what’s weirder,” he muttered, “Hermione Granger thanking me, or fucking Aunt _Bellatrix_ thanking me.”  
Hermionetrix attempted her best Bellatrix impression: her nose tipped upwards, her eyebrows arched, and she said in the coldest, snootiest way she could, “I should think that that’s obvious.”

She thought he might scowl, or sneer some more, or say something cutting. Instead, what she got from him was the ghost of a smirk.

* * *

 


	39. Thirty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from DH.

 

It was unnerving, owning the power that Bellatrix possessed and exerted on anyone in her path. Silence fell in the Leaky Cauldron when Hermionetrix, _Not_ -Sr., Transfigured-Ron, (dubbed Dragomir Despard – Luna’s idea, much to Ron and Malfoy’s displeasure,) entered. Harry and Griphook were well concealed under the invisibility cloak. The scant patrons who were huddled around corner tables hunched low, as if attempting to squeeze themselves out of existence.   
“Madam Lestrange, Mr. Nott,” Tom the barman wittered, bowing his head. Candlelight reflected brightly off his smooth, bald scalp.   
_Not_ -Sr. sniffed, not even deigning to look at the man. Hermionetrix on the other hand, lost hold of her senses and said, “Good morning.”   
Tom’s head snapped up in surprise.   
“Too polite!” hissed Harry’s voice in her ear, “You need to treat people like they’re scum!”   
“Okay, okay!” she consented through her teeth.

In the early hours, Diagon Alley looked like an abandoned city; the shops were all barred and bolted, and nobody was around. All was quiet. Still, hints of the new regime were visible in the signboards: _Harold’s House of Dark Secrets_ , _The Deathly Apothecary, Book Shoppe - A Borkin and Burke’s Franchise..._   
Dragomir let out a low whistle.   
Almost all available surfaces were plastered with ‘wanted’ posters with Harry’s face on them. Some even showed Hermione and Ron. And there... one of Kingsley...

As they strode deeper down the lane, they began to notice people clustered around random corners. Battered and tattered, they shrunk away into the shadows when they saw Hermionetrix and _Not_ -Sr.   
It made her want to claw at her face. Ever so often, she’d catch her reflection in dark shop windows, and she’d shudder every time. The shadow that bloomed beneath her feet was the one that had slithered all over her when the world had been reduced to _CRUCIO_.   
She yelped in alarm when, all of a sudden, there was a wild-eyed man right in her face. “My children!” he wailed, waving about a bloody stump of an arm, “Where are my children! What has he done with them? You know! _You know_!”   
He was crying, devastated, hysterical, and she could barely breathe.   
“I – I really –”   
He sprang at her with a great, big bellow, but then... he was crumpled on the floor ten feet away. _Not_ -Sr. and Dragomir both had their wands brandished.   
“Keep moving,” _Not_ -Sr. muttered, “Come on.”   
It took a lot of effort for her to tear her eyes away from the wretched man sobbing and clawing at the ground with his one good hand. Drawn by the commotion, faces began appearing at various windows, all united by their look of utter horror.

 

Well, so much for making an inconspicuous entry. And god, if she didn’t get it together she’d bugger up the entire enterprise. _I am Bellatrix, I am Bellatrix, I AM Bellatrix, I am_ –   
“Why, Madam Lestrange!”   
_Exactly._   
They whirled around all together to watch a stout, grey-haired wizard making his way towards them.   
_I am Bellatrix, and I am an atrocious inhuman being._ She drew back her shoulders and sneered, “And what do you want?”   
The man’s face went cold and hard, and _Not-_ Sr. unobtrusively tilted his head and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Travers. Death Eater.”   
“I merely sought to greet you,” said Travers frostily, “but if my presence is not welcome...”   
Hermionetrix hastily tried to salvage the situation, “No, no, not at all, Travers. How are you?”   
“Well, thank you. And good morning to you, too, Nott.”   
_Not_ -Sr. nodded balefully, and Travers seemed to accept that as his manner. He turned back to Hermionetrix and said, “I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix.”   
“Really? Why?” she asked haughtily.   
“Well... I heard that the inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were confined to the house, after the... ah... escape,” he responded delicately.   
_I am Bellatrix._ “The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past. Perhaps your credit is not as good with him as mine is, _Travers_.”   
Travers mouth thinned with anger, but the cloud of mistrust in his eyes lessened. Looking down at the still weeping man on the ground he enquired, “How did this one offend you?”   
“It does not matter,” Hermionetrix replied derisively, “He will not do so again.”   
Travers nodded, impressed. “Some of these wandless can be troublesome,” he said, “While they do nothing but beg I have no objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case in the Ministry last week – but whose wand are you using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own was –”   
“I have my wand here,” Hermionetrix snapped, holding up Bellatrix’s wand, “I don’t know what rumours you have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly misinformed.”   
“I... I see,” Travers stuttered in surprise. Then he sneeringly looked at Dragomir and asked, “Who is your friend? I do not recognize him.”   
“This is Dragomir Despard. He speaks very little English, but he is in sympathy with the Dark Lord’s aims. He has travelled here from Transylvania to see our new regime.”   
“Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?”   
Dragomir held out his hand, (“’ _Ow you?_ ”) and Travers reluctantly shook it.    
“So what brings you all to Diagon Alley this early?”    
“I need to visit Gringotts,” said Hermionetrix, getting seriously agitated by Traver’s inquisition. Why wouldn’t he just go away?    
“Alas, I also.” (Of _bloody_ course!) “Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends. Shall we?”

Well they hardly had a choice in the matter. Just what was needed: A suspicious and attentive Death Eater in their midst.   
“So.... Nott,” Travers ventured as they walked, “I hear your son stood with the Order during the _incident_.”   
“You certainly hear a lot, Travers,” said _Not_ -Sr. with contempt.   
“Well...”   
“I have no son.”   
“Right, yes, of course,” muttered Travers hurriedly, “It’s just that you had made such glorious, high-ceilinged promises about what you’d do to your – er the boy – if you’d ever get your hands on him...”   
_Not_ -Sr. cracked his knuckles and glowered, “All the more pity that I wasn’t present at Malfoy Manor that night. I intend to keep those promises, Travers. Or do you doubt...”   
“Not at all!”   
Hermionetrix kept her eyes fixed ahead, though she itched to glance over at her friend... just to get some sort of sign that he was still indeed in there somewhere. The way he spoke was so ferocious, _so_ convincing, that it frightened her.

 

Soon enough, they were poised before the tall doors of Gringotts. At the entrance were two navy-cloaked wizards holding golden batons.   
“Ah, Probity Probes,” sighed Travers theatrically, “So crude – but so effective!”

As he was being checked, Hermionetrix heard the softest whisper of “ _Confundo; Confundo,_ ” and knew it was safe for her to pass.    
Inside the enormous marble hall of the bank, the unlikely quartet (plus two,) stalked towards an elderly goblin perched on a high stool. Travers went first, and then... Hermionetrix stepped forward.    
“Madam Lestrange!” the goblin gasped, “Dear me! How – how may I help you today?”   
“I wish to enter my vault,” she replied arrogantly.   
The goblin suffered a strange little spasm as he peered at her. In fact, everyone – goblin and human – had stopped what they were doing to stare at her.    
“You have... identification?”    
“Identification?” she screeched, “I – I have never been asked for identification before!”   
“Think of who you are talking to, goblin!” _Not_ -Sr. growled.    
The goblin ignored him. “Your wand will do, madam.”   
Her hands began to quake. They knew. It was obvious they knew that Bellatrix was not supposed to have her own wand. _Shit_. But she had no choice. Slowly – and bitterly – she placed Bellatrix’s actual wand before the goblin.   
“Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!”   
“What?” _What?!_ “No, no, that’s mine –”   
“A new wand?” Travers sputtered, startled, “But you just said – and how could you have done? Which wandmaker did you use?”   
“I – um – you see –”   
“Oh yes, I see,” said Travers, rather... blankly... as he stared down at the wand, “Yes, very handsome. Is it working well? I always think wands require a little breaking in, don’t you?”   
What the hell was going on? Somehow, she mustered the presence of mind to nod, and then the old goblin clapped his hands, summoning a younger looking one.   
“I shall need the Clankers,” he told him, and once he’d been handed a jingling leather bag continued, “Good, good! Now, if you will follow me, Madam Lestrange, I shall take you to your vault.” 

 

* * *

 

The moment they entered into a stone torch-lit passage, Harry threw the cloak off himself and Griphook. 

“We’re in trouble,” he stated, “They suspect.”   
Somehow, neither Travers nor the goblin seemed remotely perturbed by the sudden appearance of the Undesirable Number One.    
“They’re Imperiused,” Harry explained.   
“Wicked stuff, Potter,” _Not_ -Sr. commended.   
Harry spared him an impatient look. “I don’t think I did it strongly enough, I don’t know...”   
“What do we do? Shall we get out now, while we can?” Dragomir asked frantically.   
“ _If_ we can,” Hermionetrix muttered, glancing back at the door that had snapped shut behind them. Loud voices were piercing through the heavy wood.   
Harry shook his head, “We’ve got this far, I say we go on.”   
“Good!” Griphook barked, “So, we need Bogrod here to control the cart; I no longer have the authority. But there will not be room for the wizard.”   
“Okay. _Imperio_!”   
Traver’s blank expression glazed over some more, and he wandered away into the darkness.   
“What are you making him do?” she whispered.   
“Hide.” 

 

*

 

She’d been on a rollercoaster ride only twice in her life, on two separate trips to Adventure Island. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed either of those instances.   
Hurtling through dark, twisty-turny channels in a bloody _bucket_ , with no seatbelts of any sort was far worse. Since she didn’t have a vault, she’d never seen this part of the bank before... Why was it that the magical world insisted on the most bizarre, terrifying, and impractical ways to do basic things?   
_Screech!_ – They swung around a sharp corner and Hermionetrix grabbed _Not_ -Sr.’s hand. Oh, she was going to vomit for sure.    
Suddenly, after another petrifying sharp turn, they were confronted with a gushing rapid pummelling the track ahead.   
“FUCK!” roared _Not_ -Sr. and Harry.   
“No!” shouted Griphook.   
Hermionetrix and Dragomir screamed.   
But there was no stopping. They burst through the cascade, water soaked her through, and with unexpected abruptness she was Hermione once more.

There was barely a moment to gasp – the cart turned over and tossed the lot of them. And they were freefalling, whizzing down toward the unforgiving ground below...   
“ _Molliare!_ ” Hermione shrieked.   
They all slowed and landed gently on the rocky floor.   
“C-Cushioning Charm,” she heaved, as Ron helped her up. He was back to himself, and so was Theo.   
“The Thief’s Downfall!” Griphook said gravely, “It washes away all enchantment, all magical concealment. They know there are imposters in Gringotts, they have set off defences against us!”

 

*

 

“ _Lumos_!” they all murmured once inside the Lestrange’s vault. Well here it was then, Aladdin’s legendary cave; the light from their wands revealed mountains of gold and silver, gems and jewels. Looking over at her companions, Hermione saw that they all wore different expressions – Harry was determined, Ron was utterly enthralled, Theo unimpressed, and Griphook... shifty.   
What was her face doing, she wondered.

She drifted away, carefully examining the endless piles. She saw Gryffindor’s fake sword, a solid gold armour, an emerald encrusted candelabra, strings of pearls, a skull made of lapis lazuli, a golden goblet dotted with diamonds and amethysts...   
“Harry, could this be –? Aaaah!”   
The goblet fell from her hands as she screamed. The blasted thing had _burned_ her. She shoved her scorched fingers into her mouth, and when she looked down, the cup seemed to have multiplied... she couldn’t tell which the one she’d originally picked up was.   
“They have added Germino and Flagrante Curses!” Griphook exclaimed.   
“Okay, don’t touch anything!” Harry instructed pointlessly.   
Or, not so pointlessly, as a second later, Ron tripped over a Faberge egg, and then there were about thirty more of them.   
“Oh, well done, Weasley,” Theo snapped.   
“Sod off,” Ron grumbled, hopping around clutching his burned foot.   
“Stand still! Don’t move!” Hermione ordered.

Every tiny corner of the vault was then examined with utmost care. Of course, it was difficult to entirely avoid brushing against things...

 

“HA!” Ron barked, “Whose fault is it now?”   
“Shut up,” Theo griped as he scowled down at the surplus of onyx chalices strewn around him.   
“Oh, so it’s no big deal when _you_ fuck up, eh, Super-Wizard?”   
“Weasley, I will shove you into that priceless Japanese screen behind you, and then you’ll get scalded so thoroughly that you’ll turn into one giant blister, and your skin will actually match your hair, and –”   
“You wouldn’t dare, you prick –”   
“Oh, _really_? J–”

“That’s ENOUGH, both of you!”

  
Hermione was tiptoeing her way through six towers of gold bricks when Harry’s exclamation (“It’s there! It’s up there!”) caused her to come dangerously close to knocking one of them down.   
She ran over and saw that yes, indeed, there was a little golden cup sitting high up on a shelf far beyond their reach.   
Ron asked, “You’re sure that’s the one?”   
“Definitely,” said Harry steadily, “It’s the one I saw in Hokey the House-Elf’s memory.”   
“...Merlin, I am _dying_ to know what you three have been up to this past year,” said Theo. 

 

* * *

 

With an agonised scream, Hermione burst out of the Lestrange’s vault as burning hot metal pressed and sizzled into her skin. She crashed sideways into Theo, and immediately, he helped steady her.  Ron, breathing heavily, cried “We’re done for!”   
Goblins had surrounded them – were bearing down on them – flashing maces and daggers with intent. Suddenly Griphook streaked past, waving Gryffindor’s sword while shouting, “Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!”

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Harry roared, and his fury at being betrayed doubly redoubled the intensity of his spell.   
Hermione, Theo, and Ron followed his lead: “ _STUPEFY!_ ”   
Goblins scattered helter-skelter, and above the furore, a tethered dragon roared. A wave of fire swept by above their heads.    
“THIS WAY!”   
“Harry – Harry – what are you doing?” Hermione yelled, watching in horror as he charged straight towards the fuming dragon.   
“COME ON!”   
Hermione grabbed Ron and Theo by the elbows and dragged them behind Harry as they continued to aim spells at the goblins.

“Harry, what... what...?”   
They were standing by the dragon’s foot, and the goblins had begun shooting arrows at them and.......

“Get up,” Harry commanded, “Climb up, come on –”   
_WHAT!_  
“ _Huh_?!”   
“Potter, are you _insane?!_ ”   
But Harry was already clambering up the dragon’s back. He held out his hand to Hermione looking absolutely beside himself, and – _Mother Superior jumped the gun_ – Hermione took it and let him pull her up.   
Onto the Dragon. She was sitting on the back of a great, big, fire-breathing dragon.

A BLIND fire-breathing Dragon.

“Mental. This. Is. Mental!” Ron huffed as he climbed behind her.   
“Seconded. _Fucking_ Seconded,” Theo agreed as he scrambled up after him.   
And then Harry pointed his wand at the dragon’s tether and set it free. 

 

* * *

 

The dragon did what you would expect a dragon that had been held captive in an underground cave for years to do.

It soared.

Its sheer delight at finally being able to stretch its wings was palpable. It roared as it circled high above London, it purred as it dashed through clouds.   
Hermione, however, was the opposite of jubilant. Discomfort with heights and all that aside... there was the little thing about the creature being _blind_. And if its inability to sense the presence of four people on its back was anything to go by, then its other senses weren’t all that spiffy either.   
Especially since Hermione was prone to screaming bloody murder every time the beast swerved, and Theo and Ron were lobbing a whole array of swear words high into the open sky.   
Harry was cool as a cucumber, though. He’d had a far worse interaction with a dragon back in fourth year. But that was always the case with him... Harry had always seen worse. Excuse him while he yawns through your abject terror.

Oh LORD.   
The dragon wanted air as fresh and thin as possible, it seemed, and this quest compelled it to go higher and higher and higher...   
The ground below was nonspecific and greenbrown (and SO far away - she promised herself that she would not look down again); there was no telling where they’d reached. Hermione remembered reading that dragons could fly for up to 32 hours without needing to stop. She didn’t have the temerity to loosen her hold around Harry’s waist so she might check her watch... but from the sun’s position, she hazarded a guess that it was sometime around noon. So that was five hours since they’d escaped from Gringotts.

 

The dragon swerved to the right. “ _EEEEP!_ ” she yelped.

 

“What do you reckon it’s looking for?” Ron yelled over her head some time later.   
“No idea!” Harry shouted back.   
“It’s going to take us to fucking Helsinki, I’m _telling you_!” Theo bellowed.

 

On and on and on it went. But, thankfully, it had lost some of the initial fervor that had enthralled it in the first leg of its flight. The dragon was now cruising around at a dreamy pace, and if, somehow, she could bring herself to forget that she was hundreds of thousands of feet up in the air atop a blind dragon, Hermione might’ve thought that it was almost… pleasant.   
Her mind wandered periodically. She imagined a scenario where she was telling her parents about this jaunt over dinner. (“ _Oh my!_ ” gasped mum, and “But that’s absolutely _mad_!” raved dad.) 

 

Theo said, “ _Moi_ is how you greet people in Finland, by the way.”   
Ron replied, “For Godric's sake, Nott… I’m stressed enough right now without you saying things and making it all worse.”

The sun was setting, so the sky darkened. Monsieur Dragon arced over a mountain range and let out a contented rumble. It was suddenly very, very cold, and the chilly air felt marvelous against the numerous burns on Hermione’s skin.

 

After another age of quiet flying, Ron piped up, “Is it my imagination or are we losing height?”   
Putting much at risk, Hermione made herself look. He was right – the tops of trees were no longer tiny green dots, and she could see miniature roads and little houses, all soaked in sunset hues. There was a brook directly beneath them, ( _for men may come and men may go but it goes on forever_ ,) and she saw a herd of sheep being led into their enclosure by a man... Gabriel Oak, perhaps. They passed a small forest, a church, a meadow, another farm...

Then the dragon was flying in circles over a lake. Circles that were getting tighter by the second as it descended: A literal downward spiral. Hermione started to _giggle_ which was batty, but then Harry shocked the sanity back into her:   
“I say we jump when it gets low enough! Straight into the water before it realizes we’re here!”   
_Oh dear._  
“How,” Theo shouted, “Are you the boy who keeps living when all your ideas are so fucking _mad_!”   
“They may be mad, but obviously they work! Okay then… NOW!”     

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_ Hermione slid off _fuck_ the dragon’s back and _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ whizzed through the icy air for _fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKfuck_ an eternity, and landed with a huge, _fucking_ horrifying SPLASH into icier waters.   
She bobbed up and down, gasping, looking across large ripples to see Theo, Harry, and Ron breaking through the surface of the water. The dragon was already miles away; a shadowy speck against the cobalt sky.   
Together, the four of them swam towards the nearest shore. Hermione nearly flew into a panic when one of her legs got tangled up in a clump of reeds, but Ron came to her rescue, pulling her free.

Hacking and spluttering, she crawled onto solid ground and collapsed. She could hear Ron’s wheezes nearby and Harry’s breathless incantations as he cast protective spells around them.

For a long time they just lay on the grass, panting. Unmoving. Unbelieving.

“Holy... Holy.... _Holy_...” Theo murmured.  

 

And then it was back to business. Hermione sat up and began fumbling around in her bag, pulling out a change of clothes for all. She fished out a phial of dittany for their burns, and four large bottles of pumpkin juice.   
In dry clothes and with healed skin, they blinked around at each other as they gulped juice like it was heavenly nectar straight from Mount Olympus.   
“Well, on the upside,” Ron remarked, “we got the cup. On the downside –”   
“–no sword,” Harry fumed.   
“No sword. That double-crossing little scab.”   
“Goblins, yeah?” Theo quipped, “If only someone had warned you that it wasn’t a good idea to –”   
“Nott, I _swear_ , I –”   
“What’ll happen to the dragon?” Hermione asked, mostly to stop their bickering, but also because she was a bit concerned, “Will it be alright? I mean… its blind and not used to being out in the wild…”   
Ron looked at her bemusedly. “You sound like Hagrid. It’s a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to worry about.”   
“What do you mean?”   
“Well I don’t know how to break this to you,” he replied slowly, “but I think they _might_ have noticed we broke into Gringotts.”

Theo let out a great big snort of laughter. Ron gawked at him, startled, but then on his other side, Harry fell onto his back and cracked up. After that it was inevitable; they all guffawed till their throats were raw.   
Actually, until Harry’s gasps of hilarity turned into those of pain. Hermione, Ron, and Theo scrambled to his side in alarm, and watched as he twitched and shuddered, lost in yet another untimely foray into Voldemort’s mind.   
“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Theo demanded, even as he continued to stare at Harry with horrified fascination.   
“He’s, um, having a vision,” Hermione explained weakly.   
“Potter’s a seer?!”   
“Er, no. He has a... connection... of sorts... with You-Know-Who. He can see into his mind sometimes.”   
“That – buggering hell – is _not_ normal.”   
“No, really,” Ron intoned scornfully.   
“Alright. You need to tell me what’s up,” Theo stated emphatically, “I’ve gone along with things so far, dragon et al, but now Potter here has gone for a stroll down Dark Lord Lane, and I want to know why we went through _hell_ to get hold of a bit of bric-a-brac,” he ended by tilting his head towards Hufflepuff’s cup nestled innocuously in Ron’s hand.     
“You’re right,” Hermione sighed.   
“Hermione, _NO_!” Ron exclaimed.   
“... _Imposters_....” Harry moaned.   
“Ron, we owe him the truth now, I think!”   
“Yeah, _Ron_ ,” Theo seconded unhelpfully.   
“Hermione, Harry doesn’t want to tell him!”   
“This isn’t about Harry...”   
“ _Of course_ it is!”   
“It’s about You-Know-Who, Ron! It’s about everybody who’s fighting to bring him down! It’s about you, and me, and –”   
“He’ll just go off and tell Malfoy first thing!”   
“No I won’t,” Theo snapped.   
“Yeah, _right..._ ”

They glared lividly at each other. Hermione could sense something unpleasant churning about in Ron’s head, poised to come shooting out of his mouth, so quickly she intervened –   
“The cup’s a Horcrux.”   
“WHAT?!”   
“ _Hermione....._!”

Theo instinctively flinched away from the small golden relic. “Are you serious? A bloody _Horcrux_!”   
“Yes.”   
“You-Know-Who made a Horcrux!?”   
“Six, actually.”   
“ _Yeesh_.”   
“...Yes.”   
“So that’s what you’ve been doing all this while? Tracking down Horcruxes?”   
“Basically.”

“Hold on a second,” Ron broke in angrily, “You know what a Horcrux is?”   
“You know who my father is?” came Theo’s pat reply.   
“You mean,” Hermione spluttered with dread, “That your father’s made one too?”   
“Nah. He just told me all about them during my pre-Hogwarts lessons. One of the greatest magical accomplishments, according to him.”   
“Your father is a sick bastard,” Ron spat.   
“Finally something we can agree on, Weasley.”

 

As they eyed each other guardedly, Harry resurfaced with a groan.   
“He knows,” he rasped, “He knows and he’s going to check where the others are... and the last one is at Hogwarts. I knew it. I knew it.”   
Harry jumped into a standing position spryly, and it was hard to believe that just a moment ago he was trembling feebly on the ground.   
“What?” blurted Theo and Ron.   
“But what did you see?” Hermione questioned, “How do you know?”   
“I saw him find out about the cup, I – I was in his head,” Harry began pacing as the other three got to their feet, “he’s... seriously angry, and scared too. Can’t understand how we knew, and now he’s going to check if the others are safe, the ring first. He thinks the Hogwarts one is safest, because Snape’s there, because it’ll be hard not to be seen getting in. I think he’ll check that one last, but he could still be there within hours –”   
“Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?” Ron asked.   
“No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he didn’t think about exactly where it is – _fuck_ – We need to get going.”    
“But how are we going to get in?” Hermione wondered fretfully.    
“Hog’s Head,” said Theo immediately, “There’s a way into the Room of Requirement in there. It’s what Draco’s been using all year...”   
“Fine,” Harry assented grimly, “It’s a good thing it’s dark... Hermione, you can fit under the Cloak with me, but first disillusion these two, yeah?”    
She nodded and set to work, hoping Bellatrix’s wand would let her cast the charm as well as her original wand had done. The results seemed satisfactory enough.

She walked slowly over to stand by Harry’s side.   
“Okay, everybody ready?” He swung the cloak around the two of them, and – “One... two... three...” 

 

* * *

 

It had been a whirl: Seconds after they’d apparated to Hogsmeade, Death Eaters were on them – though, thanks to the cloak and disillusionments, they were able to escape into an alleyway, quickly. 

“Let’s just leave!” Hermione hissed.   
“Yeah… Disapparate now!” Theo agreed.   
“Great idea,” Ron added.   
(“WE KNOW YOU ARE HERE, POTTER, AND THERE’S NO GETTING AWAY! WE’LL FIND YOU!”)   
“They were ready for us,” whispered Harry. “They set up that spell to tell them we’d come. I reckon they’ve done something to keep us here, trap us –”   
“We have to try, Harry!” Hermione beseeched.

But then came Dementors, and there was no way the Death Eaters wouldn’t notice the brilliant silver stag that chased them away. 

 

* * *

 

The Death Eaters were in an uproar – 

“YOU broke the curfew, you doddering old fuck!” shouted one.   
“I still say I saw a stag Patronus!” railed another.   
The barman of the Hog’s Head stared them down. “Stag? It’s a goat, idiot!”

Still under the cloak, Hermione peeped over the bar to watch the scene. Evidently, the goat Patronus had persuaded the assembly of Death Eaters, for she saw only their backs as they walked out. The barman chained and bolted the front door behind them, then watched them for a while through a window.   
Abruptly, he spun around, and gruffly called out, “It’s safe. You can come out now,” and once they had – “You bloody fools. What were you thinking, coming here?”   
“Thank you,” Harry said to him, “We can’t thank you enough. You saved our lives!”   
The barman merely grunted, before disappearing into an adjoining room.

 

“Cheerful bugger, isn’t he?” Theo whispered.   
“...Like a slice of Snape,” Hermione rejoined.   
“With Pince drizzle,” Theo continued.   
“And a Filch on the top.”    
“I’m _starving_ ,” Ron moaned, and they all stared at him, quite disturbed. “What?”

Luckily for Ron, the barman returned with a plate laden with bread and cheese, and a jug full of mead. They fell upon it like noble Brutus fell upon his sword, like Icarus fell to the sea; with finality, with passion, with outstanding grace.   
“Fank oo, real goof,” said Ron with _outstanding grace._  
The barman nodded.   
Harry swallowed a mouthful, cleared his throat and said, not as a question but a statement, “You’re Aberforth.”   
“Aye.”   
Hermione stopped eating to stare at the man who Rita Skeeter had written off as an irredeemable freak. Bearded like his brother, and bespectacled, too. His eyes were the same brilliant blue, and they were narrowed as he watched Harry.   
“Right then,” he said, “We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can’t be done by night, you heard what happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness...”   
“No,” Harry cut in, “We aren’t leaving.”   
“Don’t be stupid, boy!”   
“We _need_ to get into Hogwarts! If you can’t help us, we’ll wait till daybreak, leave you in peace, and try to find a way in ourselves...”   
“But you _can_ help,” Theo added, “There’s a way in from here, don’t deny it. Where is it?”   
“Please,” Hermione implored.

Aberforth looked at all of their faces closely, one by one, and then sighed, seeming to cave. He turned to the portrait of a young girl on the wall behind him, and muttered, “You know what to do.”   
She smiled, turned and walked away, receding into the tunnel painted behind her. And when she eventually returned, she was not alone. The one with her, undoubtedly male, possessed a much taller, much broader frame.   
And when the portrait swung open like a door and he tumbled out, Hermione gave a little whoop of delight.   
“Neville!”   
Neville, looking more hard and weathered than she had ever seen him, grinned broadly. “I knew you’d come! I _knew_ it!” 

 

* * *

 

As they walked down the dark and narrow tunnel, Neville told them all about the many ways the Carrows had terrorized the teachers and students of Hogwarts. He was so… cavalier about it all; entirely unruffled. Though he was limping, and though one of his eyes was swollen shut, he appeared genuinely and utterly delighted to see them all again. 

Casually, he mentioned incidents that made Hermione’s stomach turn: Terry Boot getting beaten up, the relentless use of the Cruciatus curse during lessons, Michael Corner getting chained up and tortured, Padma suffering the wrath of Alecto for weeks, Seamus being sentenced to daily lashings…   
“My god, Neville,” she half-sobbed.   
“We’re all alright, though,” he put an arm around her and smiled, “You’ll see. They’ll all be bloody chuffed to see you!”   
“Who _are_ you?” Ron asked him with awe, and he chuckled.   
“Well… here we are,” he announced as they arrived at a door. As he pulled it open he shouted, “Look who it is! Didn’t I tell you?”

Harry walked through the opening first. He was greeted with a humungous roar, and so the remaining three rushed on after him…

 

The Room of Requirement was larger than she had ever seen, full of beds, sofas, lamps, bookcases, and colourful hangings depicting all four houses; but that wasn’t what rooted Hermione to the ground. It was the massive throng of people that gathered around, hugging her, patting her back, shaking her hand...   
“HARRY!” “It’s Potter – POTTER!” “Ron!” “ _Hermione!_ ” “Oh... Theo!”   
“Okay, okay, calm down!” Neville ordered, and they all listened. He was, well and truly, their leader. What a marvel that boy was!

 “Wow,” Theo breathed, looking about him.   
“Surpassed itself, hasn’t it?” Neville beamed.   
“It’s all down to Neville,” Seamus said, “He really _gets_ this room – knows exactly what to ask. Neville’s the man!” His face was so badly swollen, that his grin looked painful. Hermione hurriedly took some murtlap essence out from her bag and handed it to him. “So... what are you –”   
Harry jerked and fell to his knees, hands rising up to find his scar.

 “Harry! Are you alright?”  
“Potter!”   
“Harry!”   
“What –”   
“We need to get going,” Harry muttered through his teeth, looking hard at Hermione and Ron.   
“What are we going to do, then, Harry?” asked Seamus, “What’s the plan?”   
“Plan? Well, there’s something we – Ron, Hermione, and I – need to do, and then we’ll get out of here.”   
Everybody stopped chattering at once.   
“What d’you mean, ‘ _get out of here_ ’?”   
“We haven’t come back to stay,” Harry replied shortly, “There’s something important we need to do –”   
“What is it?”   
“I – I can’t tell you.”   
Hermione saw Theo’s lips thin, Neville’s eyebrows push together, and Seamus’s nostrils flare.   
“Why can’t you tell us?” Neville demanded, “It’s something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, right?”   
“Well, yes –”   
“Then we’ll help you.”   
Cries of _hear hear_ erupted across the room. Hermione saw so many faces that made her heart leap – Parvati, Lavender, Ernie, Justin, Terry...    
“You don’t understand,” Harry mumbled feebly, “We – we can’t tell you. We’ve got to do it – alone.”   
“Oh get _over_ yourself, Potter!” Theo burst out, “I’m so tired of this solo woe-is-me-trip you have going. Didn’t you hear what Longbottom said? We’re _all_ fighting the same war. Let them bloody help you!”   
“Good man!” Seamus cheered, and a few people even applauded.   
Harry glared. “Dumbledore left the three of us a job and we weren’t supposed to tell! I mean, he wanted us to do it, just the three of us.”   
“We’re his army,” Neville said fervently, “Dumbledore’s Army. We’ve been keeping it going while you three have been off on your own –”   
“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic, mate,” Ron interjected.   
“I’m sure it hasn’t but I don’t see why you can’t trust us! Everyone in this room’s been fighting and they’ve been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting them down. Everyone in here’s proven they’re loyal to Dumbledore – loyal to you.”

 

The uncomfortable silence that followed was, thankfully, short-lived. The door leading to the secret tunnel popped open and Luna, Dean, and Malfoy strolled in. There were twin roars of delight from Theo and Seamus as they both ran toward the new arrivals. Theo kissed Luna in a way that led to many wolf whistles, and Seamus hugged Dean like they were meeting after twenty years.   
But the most bizarre thing to happen was Neville going over to clap Malfoy on the back.   
“Malfoy! Good to see you again, mate.”   
“Longbottom,” Malfoy replied stiffly, “You look like shite.”   
“Well, you haven’t been around to heal me, have you?”   
(“Have we entered an alternate reality?” Ron whispered, dumbstruck.)

“What the hell are they doing here?” Harry demanded.   
“I called them,” Neville responded, holding up a DA Galleon, “I promised I would when you’d show up to  help us reclaim Hogwarts.”   
“That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it Harry?” Luna trilled from between Theo’s arms, “We’re going to fight them out of Hogwarts?”

Harry’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times. “Listen,” he stuttered, “I’m sorry, but that’s not what we came back for. There’s something we’ve got to do, and then –”   
“You’re going to leave us in this clusterfuck?” Michael Corner spat.    
“No!” said Ron, “What we’re doing will benefit everyone in the end, it’s all about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who –”    
“Then let us help!” said Neville angrily. “We want to be a part of it!”

 

They were saved by the door again: This time it marked the arrival of Fred, George, Lee Jordan, and...   
“Ginny!”   
She smiled, brightly, widely, (her bright red hair just brushing the tops of her shoulders,) and threw herself into Harry’s embrace.   
“Little brother!” Fred and George cried in unison and tackled Ron.   
“Aberforth’s getting a bit annoyed,” said Lee Jordan, “He wants a kip, and his bar’s turned into a railway station.”   
As Hermione hugged Ginny, George loosened his chokehold on Ron and conversationally enquired, “So what’s the plan, Harry?”   
“There _isn’t_ one,” Harry groaned.    
“Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favourite kind,” Fred rejoiced.   
“That’s the Potter way,” said Theo dryly.   
“You’ve got to stop this!” Harry begged Neville despairingly, “What did you call them all back for? This is insane –”    
“Why can’t they help?” said Ron suddenly.    
“ _What?_ ”

  
Ron pulled him and Hermione aside. “They can help,” he whispered, “We don’t know where it is; we’ve got to find it fast. We don’t have to tell them it’s a Horcrux.”   
“Ron’s right,” Hermione agreed firmly, “We need them. You... You... don’t have to do everything alone, Harry.”

He had a funny look on his face as he mulled that over, upset but also completely bewildered.   
“All right,” he said in the end, and he turned towards the anxious crowd. “Okay.”

 

*  
  


 

Ravenclaw’s lost diadem was a gamble by any definition, but it was the only lead they had.   
Harry locked his hands behind his back and whispered to Hermione and Ron, “I’m going to go and look at this statue of Ravenclaw... at least find out what the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you know – the other one – safe.”   
“Yes.”  
“Sure.”

    
Harry looked askance at Cho, who jumped to her feet, but Ginny brusquely insisted, “No. Luna will take Harry, won’t you, Luna?”   
Luna smiled brightly, “Oooh, yes, I’d like to.” (And Cho sat back down looking decidedly cross.)   
“I’m coming too,” said Theo in a tone that brooked no arguments.

 

  
*  
  


 

Once Harry, Luna, and Theo had gone, Hermione wandered around the large room, taking in everything. It was like being inside an enormous bomb shelter.   
The recent turn of events had given rise to an air of flagrant excitement, and all around, people were chatting, convening, buzzing...

Terry Boot smiled at her as she passed the corner where he was huddled with Michael, Cho, Lisa, and Mandy.   
Ernie and Justin waved as she walked by.   
She grinned when she saw Parvati and Lavender asking Angelina to plait their hair into serviceable, battle-friendly styles.

Her eyebrows shot up when she saw Padma and Tracy sitting awfully close together, talking in whispers, with their hands tightly clasped.

Then she got to where Fred, George, and Ginny were sitting with Malfoy.   
“Draco,” sang Fred.   
“Draaaaaaaco,” crooned George.   
They put their heads together, fluttered their eyelashes and sighed, “Oh, _Draco_!”   
 “What’s all this?” Hermione demanded of Ginny who shot her an amused look.   
“Fred and George are imitating mum. She’s _very_ grateful that Malfoy risked his life to warn us about the attack on the Burrow.”   
Malfoy looked very sorry indeed that he had done so.   
“Would you like some cake, Draco?” said Fred.   
“Is that horrid wooden chair too hard on your precious little arse, Draco?” said George.   
Ginny snickered, “I won’t be surprised if mum declares him an honorary Weasley.”   
Malfoy turned vaguely green. “Just _fuck off_ will you?”   
“But, George... do you think Draco dear will be able to pull off red hair?”   
“With that face and those eyes? How can you even _ask_ , Fred?”   
“Oh sorry, sorry. Won't daddy Malfoy be thrilled...”

Hermione moved on. Neville and Dean were sitting with Seamus as some fifth year Ravenclaw girl slathered murtlap essence all over his face.   
“...need a wand,” Dean muttered.   
Seamus gasped, “You don’t have a _wand_?!”   
“Wait... I have a couple of spare ones,” said Neville reassuringly, “Nicked them from the Carrow’s confiscated lot...” 

 

Finally, at one corner of the room, sitting by the wall directly under the Gryffindor banner, Hermione found Ron.   
“Isn’t this the _craziest_ thing you’ve ever seen?” he mumbled as she sat down next to him.   
“Really, Ron,” she smiled, “After... well, everything... _this_ is what throws you?”   
“Er... yeah?”   
Hermione laughed. “I know what you mean though. This is weird. It’s incredible.”   
They stared about them in amazement for a while.   
Then, Ron looked at her questioningly. “What do you reckon... this diadem thing... do you think it’s what we’re looking for?”   
“I don’t know,” Hermione mumbled, and just like that all her optimism came crashing down, “Honestly, it better be. We have nothing else to go on.”   
“Right.” Ron ran a hand through his hair anxiously.   
“But,” she continued, “Even if it _is_ a Horcrux... we have no way of getting rid of it, do we?”   
“Fuck, you’re right,” Ron groaned, “Too bad we don’t have a couple the basilisk’s toothpicks... at... hand...” He trailed off, and a look of wonder bloomed across his face.   
“Ron? What–?”   
“That’s it!” he exclaimed. His eyes were _so_ wide... “The basilisk! Hermione....! The basilisk!”   
“What are you –”   
“It’s still here, innit? In the Chamber of Secrets... we can just go pick up a couple of its fangs and –”   
“ _Oh my god!_ ” she gasped.   
“Yeah?”   
“YES! Ron... YES. That’s... That’s BRILLIANT!”   
“So shall we go then?”   
“Absolutely! Shit, Ron, you’re a genius!”   
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he grinned as she gaped. Looking over his shoulder he called, “Oi, Neville... wouldn’t have some brooms lying about here, would you?”

* * *

 


	40. Forty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from DH.

 

There they were, Hermione and Ron, staring at the snake-engraved sink tap that was the key to the Chamber of Secrets; tense, anxious, frightened, exhilarated.... And Moaning Myrtle descended on them.  
“Oh look! It’s Ginger and the kitty-cat!”  
“Not now, Myrtle!” Hermione snapped, while Ron made another series of hissing sounds at the tap.  
“You’re always so _rude_ ,” she wailed, “Where’s Harry?”  
Ron’s fifth attempt at Parseltongue fell flat.  
“The last time I saw him, he hurt poor Draco so badly. They were fighting over me...”  
Ron hissed. Hermione told Myrtle to _shut up_.  
“Angry little pussy, aren’t you? You think you’re better than lonely, miserable Myrtle... but I don’t see any boys fighting over _you_...”

The squat and sullen spectre fell silent as a low rumbling sound pervaded the air. The sink began to rotate and disappear into the ground.  
“You did it, Ron!” Hermione gasped.  
“Bloody hell. I did, didn’t I?” he said with that quintessentially _Ron_ look of gobsmackedness, “Um, alright then,” he continued as he peered down the narrow tunnel that had revealed itself, “Geronimo!”

 

*

 

The Chamber was long and filled with snake-engravings. Every last surface was covered. A bit much, Hermione thought. Yes, Salazar, you like snakes. Got it.  
 At the far end was an enormous statue of the man himself, all bearded and stern, like an ancient sculpture of Poseidon. A diffused and faintly green mist filled the space, and twisting, turning, coiling all over the stone floor was the skeleton of a colossal serpent.  
“Look at the size of that thing,” Ron breathed.  
“The Great Wall of China,” Hermione blurted with mindless awe. Harry had taken this monster on all by himself. At _twelve_. Jesus.

They walked around the chamber, searching for the creature’s head...  
“Here!” Ron called from between two (snake-covered) pillars. Hermione rushed over and baulked at the sight of the massive skull with spiky, yellowed, scythe-like teeth. She stepped forward, and a couple of severing charms later, there was a small pile of Basilisk fangs before her. She swallowed, delved into her bag, and took out Hufflepuff's golden cup.  
“Here,” she whispered quiveringly, holding it out to Ron.  
His hand half-lifted... but then dithered and dropped back to his side. “No,” he stated with a shake of his head, “You do it.”  
“Me?” she squeaked, startled, “Why?”  
“You haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Ron shrugged, “It’s only fair that you get a go.”  
Right.  
Like they were in a playground, and he was offering her a turn on the swings.  
“Okay.”

Kneeling on the damp, slimy ground, with the cup placed in front of her and a fang in hand, Hermione found herself unable to move.  
“Go on,” Ron murmured encouragingly, crouching down next to her, “Just do it.”  
_Just do it_. She was hit with a paralyzing, primal fear that seemed to be emanating right out of the cup. _Just do it. Just –_

She raised the fang high above her head and, eyes fixed on the Horcrux, took a deep breath and struck. There was a deafening, awful screech – and it wasn’t that of metal being pierced. It was human, but only in the loosest sense of the word. From within the small gash her strike had made, a wisp of black smoke seeped out, and within seconds it got larger and sturdier till it towered over her, a solid, vaguely anthropomorphic form.  
“ _The Brightest Witch of her age_ ,” the... thing... the behemoth... the golem... spoke in a chorus which was a culmination of so many voices she recognised, “ _Hermione Granger. What a tragic waste_.”  
She stared up at the mountainous figure feeling all the various voices tug at different heartstrings.  
“ _Brightest Witch.... so much talent... such potential... that determination to prove yourself... all squandered to be the doomed sidekick of a reckless martyr._ ”  
“HERMIONE!” Ron shouted, “STAB IT AGAIN!”  
“ _Such a brilliant mind... such promising abilities... I can show you how to harness them... I can teach you everything...”  
_ Everything?  
“ _You will be unstoppable... all those arcane secrets about magic that you wonder about will be yours to hone...”_  
Ron put his hands on both her shoulders and shook her. Hard.  
She gasped. Lifting the fang up again, she brought it down on the cup with twice the force; a feral grunt – almost a roar – tore out of her throat. The monstrous apparition exploded into billions of feathery particles, and a painful scream echoed around the chamber.

 

The contrasting silence of the seconds that followed was breathtaking, and in a rare instance of synchrony, Hermione and Ron let it linger.

“Well,” she panted after a while, “Just two more to go.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Did it...” she faltered, “Did it try to... distract... you as well? When you, um...”  
Ron laughed nervously, and his entire face turned red. “Oh, you have no idea. It was worse. Much worse.”  
“...What –”  
“We should go,” he said hurriedly, “Hopefully Harry’s had some luck with the diadem.”  
“Yes. All right.”  

Her legs were shaking as she stood up, and Ron and she picked up a good dozen of the Basilisk’s fangs between them and shoved them into her bag. But as they were exiting the chamber and walking into the tunnel that would lead them out, a high, steely voice cut into the gloom. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, from all around _and_ within her head.  
“ _I know you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded. You have until midnight._ ”

Hermione and Ron shared one horror-stricken and distressed look, before he swiftly mounted the broom he’d been carrying, and she hopped on behind him, and they took off.

 

* * *

 

 

They ran from corridor to corridor, passing clusters of students ready to fight, suits of armour springing off their stands... from the windows they could see threads of white-blue enchantments swirl around the grounds. The entire foundation of the castle seemed to be trembling with magic and exhilaration.

“Hermione, Ron!” Dean called from beside a courtyard archway where he stood with Justin Finch-Fletchley, Parvati, and Alicia Spinnet.   
“Have you seen Harry?” Ron asked.  
“At the Great Hall about half an hour back... what –?”

They shot off without waiting for him to finish.

 

They scuttled down one passageway... two... and at the third, someone skidded around the corner and stumbled right into their path. Harry’s frenzied green eyes widened and he bellowed, “Where the _hell_ have you been?”

 

* * *

 

On the seventh floor, Hermione, Harry, and Ron encountered Ginny and Tonks staring out of a shattered window, watching Grawp stomp around on the grounds, growling threateningly into the night.

“Let’s hope he steps on some of them!” Ron said boisterously.  
“As long as it’s not any of our lot,” Ginny whispered and aimed a jinx into a throng of Death Eaters below.  
“Good girl!” hollered Aberforth, suddenly appearing through a cloud of dust. He had a small army of students behind him. “They look like they might be breaching the north battlements; they’ve brought giants of their own.”  
As he continued to charge down the corridor, Tonks yelled after him, “Have you seen Remus?”  
“He was duelling Dolohov – haven’t seen him since!”  
“Tonks, I’m sure he’s okay –” Ginny began, but Tonks wasted no time in running off after Aberforth. 

Running a hand through his hair, Harry mumbled, “They’ll be all right,” not sounding confident in the least. “Ginny,” he went on, “We’ll be back in a moment. Keep out of the way, keep safe...”

 

Just as they got to the wall beyond which the Room of Requirement lay, Ron exclaimed, “Hang on a moment! We’ve forgotten someone!”  
“Who?” Hermione asked.  
“The house-elves, they’ll all be down in the kitchen, won’t they?”  
“You mean we ought to get them fighting?” asked Harry blankly.  
Ron gravely shook his head, “I mean we should tell them to get out. We don’t want any more Dobby’s, do we? We can’t order them to die for us –”  
“SERIOUSLY?!” Hermione burst out, gawking at him, “Now? NOW? You choose _now_ to have your lovely, endearing moment of enlightenment?”  
“Er – What.”  
“I mean... _now_? There isn’t time for me to feel proud, or amazed, or _vindicated_ , or –”  
“It’s now or never, innit?” Ron grinned widely, glowingly, “Imagine if I had died an unenlightened oppressor –”  
“Excuse me,” Harry cut in dryly, “But could you save the banter for _after_ the war?”  
“Yeah – right – sorry –” Ron muttered.

  
Harry had to pace in front of the wall five-and-a-half times before a door appeared. They entered, it shut behind them, and it was like they had entered a different world.  
All the crashing and booming of the battle outside disappeared. They stood in absolute quiet in the middle of a massive, post-apocalyptic landfill... A madman’s curiosity shop... Salvador Dali’s brain. Towers of random objects sprawled across the cavernous room, some touching the high ceiling.  
“This way,” Harry said softly, as though too much volume could cause damage, “I think it’s down here...”  
For a while, they wandered aimlessly among the heaps, centuries’ worth of rubbish piled up and abandoned... Harry really didn’t seem to have a clue about where he was leading them.  
“ _Accio_ Diadem!” Hermione murmured, but nothing happened.  
“Let’s split up,” Harry suggested, “Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It’s standing on a cupboard and it’s definitely somewhere around here....”

So they each veered off in different directions. Hermione peered closely through all the junk – the trumpery and the frippery, the bits and bobs, and this and that...  
Sometimes, she’d get so close to being sidetracked. She saw a beautiful bronze astrolabe with Persian inscriptions... jars full of glowing liquids... _so many_ books... a tall, inornate cabinet made of dark wood...  
She stopped dead as she stared at that last item. Was this, perhaps, the infamous vanishing cabinet that Malfoy had spent nearly a year mending? Was this innocuous looking object the very thing that had marked the beginning of the nightmare they were stuck in?  
_Move on, Hermione._  
She took a turn to the left and circled around a tower of old wooden chairs. She saw bottles, vases, satchels, figurines... but no bust, no diadem.

By and by, as she neared what looked like a large stuffed river troll, Hermione heard voices. One was Harry and the other –  
“...gonna be rewarded,” Vincent Crabbe purred gleefully, “We ’ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to bring you to ’im.”  
“Good plan,” Harry commended sarcastically, “So how did you get in here?”  
She could tell he was trying to keep Crabbe distracted. Gingerly, she peeked from behind the troll’s thick arm, and saw that it wasn’t just Crabbe; evidently Twiddledum and Twiddledee could never be separated.  
“We was hiding in the corridor outside,” Goyle said in his gravelly voice while looking supremely pleased with himself, “We can do Diss-lusion Charms now! And then you turned up right in front of us and said you was looking for a die-dum! The fuck’s a die-dum?”  
“Harry? Are you talking to someone?”  
Hermione swore under her breath. And Crabbe, showing surprising agility, pointed his wand at a looming hill of furniture and trunks, and yelled, “ _Descendo_!”  
One by one, things began to go crashing down around the region where Ron’s voice had come from. Harry aimed a quick _finite_ at the teetering pile, and restored its stability.  
   
“Harry?” Ron called once more, still hidden behind the junk, “What’s going on?”  
“ _Harry_?” Crabbe scowled and mimicked, “ _What’s going on_ —no, Potter! _Crucio_!”  
_WHAT?!_  
She leapt out from behind the troll and sent a Stunning Spell straight towards Crabbe. From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry crash into the ground after a fearsome leap, and something small and glittering flew high up in the air and fell in the middle of the mess of recently fallen furniture.  
“It’s the Mudblood!” Crabbe roared, “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”  
She dived to the side, winded, and barely had time to react when she heard Goyle growl, “ _Crucio!_ ”

But the spell never hit her. Instead, Goyle’s wand flew out of his hand and disappeared within the clutter beside him. Then, from the shadows between two towers, Malfoy emerged.  
He walked slowly towards his former lackeys, (and as he passed Hermione he whispered _ever_ so softly – “That’s thrice now,”) somehow managing to coerce his face into that grating old smirk of his.  
“ _Draco_?!” Goyle spluttered.  
“Goyle,” he nodded, “Crabbe. _Leave_.”  
“What the fuck d’you mean _leave_?” Crabbe thundered.  
“I mean go away. Run along. Exit. See yourselves out.”  
Crabbe seethed. “NO.”  
“Listen, you idiot... you’re in over your thick head here. Get out.”  
“I don’t take your orders no more, Draco. You an’ your dad are finished.”  
“Yeah,” Goyle spat, “I know what you’s doing. You want ‘im to yourself. Want to take ‘im to the Dark Lord and make up for all your cock ups.”  
“Oh, splendid deduction, Goyle,” Malfoy drawled, “Really excellent stuff. You’re such a genius.”  
“Fuck y–”

All of a sudden, Ron emerged from between the rubble, shouting “ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ”  
The spell _just_ grazed past Crabbe, who spun around lividly to retaliate.  
“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”  
Ron jumped behind a cello case to dodge the curse. Crabbe and the wandless Goyle both charged after him.  
“ _Shit_ ,” Malfoy growled, and followed...  
Harry grabbed Hermione’s arm and pointed at the heap before them, “It’s somewhere here! The diadem! Look for it while I go and help R–”

A thunderous rumbling from behind had them spinning around... Ron, Malfoy, and Crabbe were sprinting towards them, followed by a desecrating row of blazing flames.  
“Like it hot, motherfucker?” Crabbe boomed.    
The fire was spreading inordinately fast... “ _Aguamenti!_ ” both Hermione and Harry howled. All that emerged from their wands was vapour.  
“RUN!” Malfoy screamed through a cough. Hermione and Harry loped along after him.

  
What followed was a haze. All Hermione knew was run run run run and FIRE. And it was no ordinary fire. From the way it was consuming and annihilating everything it touched, she recognised it to be Fiendfyre... and the only way to survive was to get as fucking far away from it as possible.  
She scampered around like a headless chicken, shrieking as flames licked the air around her. Drenched in sweat, dizzy, terrified... every shallow breath brought with it the sickening chary smell of smoke and ash. Her hair tumbled out of its bun, and streaked out behind her as she ran. Shit, if the fire were to catch it! She threw an arm behind her head and pulled the lot over her shoulder; all the while running, running, running...

She hit a dead end. Before her was a wall, and around her was a ring of Fiendfyre. To her horror, she saw that only Ron was with her – they’d lost Harry, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle...  
She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think; this was it, the end, and the end was a hissing, roaring, blazing orange.  
“What can we do?” she screamed, “What can we do?”  
Ron ran around in a circle, looking for a way out, but she knew it was hopeless... the inferno was closing in... The end...

 

“RON! HERMIONE!”  
The call came from above, and she nearly _melted_ at the sight of Harry and Malfoy hovering over them on brooms.  
“HARRY! HARRY – HELP!”  
They dived, splitting when a flare rose up to guzzle them. Harry flew straight to Ron, seizing his arm and –  
“GRAB ON, GRANGER,” Malfoy belted. She took his hand, he hauled her up, and then directed his broom straight up. Hermione bit back a wail of alarm, pressing herself tightly against Malfoy’s back. Her arms locked around his waist, and as they rose higher and higher, she buried her face between his shoulder blades.  
It was only when her axis had righted itself that she risked looking down. The burning sea stretched endlessly. Only small islands remained – the tips of the tallest piles. Everything else – historical treasure and debris alike – had been wiped out like it had never been.  
“HARRY, LET’S GET OUT, LET’S GET OUT!” Ron shouted.  
“MALFOY!” Harry called, “CAN YOU SEE THE DOOR?”  
“NO!”

They flew around wildly, skimming close to the walls. The flames had begun taking shapes of savage beasts with yawning mouths, desperate to swallow them whole. Lions, dragons, crocodiles, snakes...  
Fucking _snakes._  
She hated snakes. She was so sick of snakes. Fuck snakes.  
“OVER THERE!” Harry roared, pointing. So it was, like the photo negative of the light at the end of a tunnel, a dark opening visible through a blazing archway. 

But Malfoy wheeled around and shot off in the opposite direction.  
“WHAT? What are you doing?” Hermione squealed, “ _What are you doing?_ ”  
“GOYLE,” he yelled.  
She craned her neck to look over Malfoy’s shoulder, and saw Goyle balancing precariously on top of a crumbling pile of... something.  
“GET ON!” Malfoy ordered the moment they were close enough, “HURRY UP!”  
Goyle jumped on behind her, and the broom tipped backwards dangerously. Hermione screamed and once again pushed her face into Malfoy’s back. Oh god they were going to slide right off and fall into the Fiendfyre and –– Malfoy lurched forward, taking her with him; the broom straightened.  
“THE DOOR, GETTOIT, THE DOOR!” Goyle chanted frantically. Malfoy sped up, zooming through the thick smoke, through the fiery creatures, through the random objects being tossed around... until Harry and Ron were visible once more.  
Then it was Harry’s turn to abruptly spin his broom around and dive.  
“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Malfoy cried.  
“GO – GO – FOLLOW HIM,” Hermione urged.  
“FUCK’S SAKE... WHAT IS HE DOING?”   
Harry... and Ron... were circling a fire-dragon, even as the beast tried to close its jaws around them. Then, swiftly, Harry dived again, and when he re-emerged, something charred but vaguely sparkly hung around his wrist. The diadem. Damn it, why hadn’t she ever told him that Fiendfyre could destroy Horcruxes?

“LETS GO,” he nodded, and shot toward the exit again. (“BLOODY HELL!” Ron exclaimed.)

  
Both Harry and Malfoy rolled into whatever the broom equivalent of sixth gear was. The hot air beating against her face scalded her eyes, so she squeezed them shut. Involuntarily, she fisted the front of Malfoy’s shirt.  
Goyle was screaming in her ear... her lungs felt like they were constricting... sweat dripped down the length of her spine...

 

“Get _off_ me, Granger.”  
Hermione’s eyes flew open, and she pulled in a gulp of fresh clean air. The smoke, the heat, the crackling, thundering noises of fire were gone: They were back in the seventh floor corridor.  
She jumped away from Malfoy, stumbling backwards off the broom and right into Ron’s chest, and he dragged her away to the opposite side of the hallway. She slid down to the floor, wheezing, pressing her hands against her buzzing heart. Harry and Ron dropped down on either side of her, similarly staggered and out of breath. Goyle was lying on the floor like a beached whale, whimpering and staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

“C-Crabbe,” Malfoy choked, slumping against the wall, “ _Fuck._ Crabbe...”  
“He’s dead,” Ron muttered unnecessarily, and Malfoy’s brow furrowed with genuine regret.  
Harry looked away.  Hermione couldn’t.

 

* * *

 

The professors’ enchantments had given way – Death Eaters were everywhere. The fifth floor was completely chaotic with seven groups of people locked in violent duels. Malfoy immediately dashed off to lend a hand to Neville, who had two cloaked and hooded figures shooting hexes at him.

Hermione looked around for someone to help, but suddenly, Fred and... Percy?!... jumped in seemingly out of thin air, both trying to overpower a Death Eater each. Hermione pitched forward, wand raised, incantation on her lips... and along with her spell, three more jets of light hit the person duelling Percy. He fell to the ground and his hood slid off, revealing the clammy face and streaked hair of Pius Thicknesse.    
“Hello, Minister!” Percy sneered down at him, “Did I mention I’m resigning?”  
Fred incapacitated his opponent with a jaunty flourish, and turned to beam at his older brother. “You’re joking, Perce! You actually are joking, Perce... I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were –”

 

**_BOOM._ **

 

Sheer energy tore ferociously across the air. Hermione was lifted off her feet and flung backwards. Her hair whipped forward, blinding her. She could hear the wind whistling in her ears as she flew.   
“ _Protego Maxima,_ ” she shrieked, raising her hands to cover the back of her head. She landed hard against a pillar and slid down its length; the harsh jagged stone shredded her knuckles. The blow had knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped, her head spun, tiny stars bloomed across her vision. She stayed absolutely still while her body pulled out of its state of shock.  
One breath. Two Breaths.... Four.  
Slowly, she opened her eyes. The entire side of the castle had been blown away. Before her, the floor cut off abruptly, and beyond it was the night sky. She couldn’t see Harry, Ron, Fred, or Percy anywhere. However, a short distance away, Neville was helping Hestia Jones to her feet... Malfoy was pushing a pile of rubble off his legs...  
“Are you all okay?” she called. Her voice was so frail; she didn’t think they’d heard her. But Neville waved a hand at her, before offering it to Malfoy.  
With feeble motions she lifted off the ground and got to her feet. Her entire back exploded with pain. She winced, and dipped her fingers under her clothes to feel – _fuck_ even the tiniest of pressure hurt. Her fingers came away wet with blood.  
A noise from behind her: Harry was stumbling over the wreckage, making his way to her.

  
“No – no – no! No! Fred! No!”

Harry grasped her hand and together they tottered and staggered towards the source of that terrible cry...  
At the other end of the hallway, Ron and Percy were on their knees next to Fred’s prone form... Fred who was spread-eagled, still, and glassy-eyed.  
“ _No,_ ” Hermione whispered in disbelief.  
Harry and she began moving faster; a skid here, a trip there, till they were standing by Fred... by Fred’s _body_. Hermione could only stare, her hands shaking, as Percy wailed into his chest and Ron’s stricken eyes were fixed on his brother’s face.  
  
“GET DOWN!”  
Harry took hold of her and pulled her down. Neville and Malfoy sprinted by while parrying curses with three Death Eaters.  
“Percy, come on, we’ve got to move!” Harry urged, but Percy only shook his head.    
Hermione turned, blinking away tears and gazed at the gaping hole ahead of them.  
“Percy!” Ron begged, “Percy, you can’t do anything for him –” (Something large, thick, and hairy peeped in from the opening...) “– We’re going to –”

She screamed. The large, hairy thing was an Acromantula. Harry and Ron simultaneously sent a jinx its way, and the strength of their combined spells knocked the creature down.  
“It brought friends!” Harry bellowed. At least a dozen giant spiders – poured in. “Let’s move, NOW!”  
He finally managed to pry Percy off Fred, and together, they towed his... body...  to a relatively hidden alcove.

Spells came out of nowhere; one whizzed dangerously close to Hermione’s head... one struck Ron on the knee...  
She grabbed hold of his arm and began pulling him away....

  
“ROOKWOOD!” Percy’s roar was as fierce as Ares’ war cry, and he streaked across the floor behind his target.

Ron immediately launched after him, but Hermione desperately held him back. It was difficult – he was so much bigger and stronger than she was – “ _Lemme go, LEMME go,_ ” – but somehow she held down his flailing arms and pushed him behind a tapestry.  
“Ron! Ron... listen... please calm down – Harry, in here!”  
“I have to go! I have to – need to –” he growled almost incoherently. He was trembling.  
“Listen to me,” she sobbed, “LISTEN RON!”  
“I wanna help – I wanna kill Death Eaters –”  
“Ron, we’re the only ones who can end it! Please – Ron – we need the snake; we’ve got to kill the snake!”  
Gradually, he stopped struggling, till finally, all that was left in him was grief, and he stooped till his head dropped onto her shoulder.  
“We _will_ fight!” she promised him, stroking his hair gently, “We’ll have to. But let’s not lose sight now of what we’re supposed to be d-doing! We’re the only ones who can end it!”  
Ron lifted his head, looked closely and sorrowfully at her... then Harry... and nodded.    
She wiped the tears off her cheeks and looked at Harry to say the words she never in a thousand years thought she’d say: “You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he’ll have the snake with him, won’t he? Do it, Harry – look inside him.”

 

* * *

 

It would forever remain one of the most impressive things she’d ever seen: A battalion of bounding desks stampeding down a hallway, being led by a tousle-haired Professor McGonagall. “CHARGE!” she hollered.

  
“Harry, you get the Cloak on,” Hermione hissed, “Never mind us –”  
Of course he tossed it over all three of them.

 

*

 

  
The fourth floor was packed with fighters. Students, teachers, Death Eaters were all over the place... it was like Renoir’s _Bal du Moulin de la Galette_... except nobody was dancing and making merry.  
Dean versus Dolohov, Parvati versus Travers; Neville’s bloody _grandmother_ versus Amycus Carrow, (“That’s for tormenting my grandson, you scoundrel!”)

In that state of unrelenting flux, she didn’t know where to aim her wand.  

Whooping and cackling, Peeves hovered overhead, bombing Death Eaters with Snargaluff pods.  
“LET’S GO!” Harry shouted.

On the staircase, they encountered Kingsley duelling a masked Death Eater... a little below, Flitwick and Yaxley were exchanging hexes. At the foot of the stairs, two bodies came crashing down from a hole in the ceiling; Hermione made out the savage, gristly, animalistic form of Fenrir Greyback as he made to sink his teeth into...  
“NO!” she shrieked, blasting the monster off Lavender, who remained on the ground barely moving. She wanted to check on her... she so did... but one of the boys steered her away...

Trelawney was dropping crystal balls from a balcony... Sprout was tossing about Venomous Tentaculas...

  
The three of them were moving so fast – everything was a blur of motion, lights, and _whizz fizzle crash boom bang_.  
She saw a hefty fifth year Hufflepuff boy emit a growl and slide-tackle his opponent.

Then there were more Acromantulas scuttling about, snapping their fangs menacingly. Hogwart’s soldiers and Death Eaters alike, stopped in their tracks to try and contain them...  
“Don’t hurt ‘em, don’t hurt ‘em!” Hagrid cried appearing around a bend and running towards his supposed friends.  
Harry tore off the cloak and chased after him – “HAGRID, NO!”

“...HAGRID, COME BACK...!”

“...HAGRID...!”

The Acromantula’s retreated hastily from the onslaught of spells, and their favourite half-giant got carried away with them.

 

*

 

A giant roamed the Entrance Hall nearly unopposed. He was enormous, _massive_ , making even Grawp – who suddenly burst through the large doorway – look runty. The giants sprung at each other, and got entangled in a brutal wrestling match.  
They crashed against the marble staircase, eviscerating a chunk of it, both growling and gnashing their teeth...  
They barrelled into the house point hourglasses, sending a cascade of glass and colourful gems across the floor.  
  
Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand – “RUN!” – and they raced onto the grounds. They saw the swarm of giant spiders disappear into the Forbidden Forest. But they’d covered no more than six paces, when the atmosphere turned arctic, and the din of war mellowed. Dread, despair, and hopelessness bubbled deep in her heart, and all Hermione could do was keep herself standing.  
Dementors – thousands, millions, trillions of Dementors – formed an arc in front of them. The deadening mist that they carried along clung to her skin; their scratchy breathing told of all the horrors that were soon to come...  
She gave herself a solid shake. “Come on! Patronuses! Come on! _Expecto Patronum!_ ”  
Her otter bounced out of her wand, twirled, then evaporated. _Shit!_ Happy thoughts, happy thoughts... Christmas with mum and dad... sitting by the lake with Theo... dancing with Ginny... laughing in the common room with Harry and Ron...  
“ _Expecto Patronum!”_...a mere wisp of silver.  
Ron’s terrier flickered and faded. His brother had just died... of course he couldn’t... but Harry! Harry had always been able... “HARRY, COME ON!” she yelled.  
He was frozen. He hadn’t even lifted his arm.  
Provence... mum and dad... “ _EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_ she tried again, but it was Fred’s blank eyes and Hagrid that her head was full of; a puff of mist was all the came out of her wand.

  
But from _behind_ them, a silver hare, a boar, a fox, and a manta ray flew over their heads, soaring straight towards the Dementors. Hermione looked around her in shock; Luna, Ernie, Seamus, and Theo were unexpectedly by their side, holding up their respective wands.  
“That’s right,” Luna egged them on, “That’s right... come on, think of something happy...”  
“Something happy?” Harry whispered throatily.    
“We’re all still here. We’re still fighting. Come on, now....”  
Hermione looked at Luna... at all of them... at her friends’ marvellous faces... and an otter, robust and full-bodied shot out of her wand. Harry’s stag and Ron’s terrier joined it. The Dementor’s didn’t stay for much longer after that.  
The unbearable coldness let off, and Hermione turned to Theo. “Where did you – how did you –”  
“Luna taught me,” he replied, smiling wanly.    
“Can’t thank you enough,” Ron muttered, nodding at their saviours one by one, “You just saved –”

He was interrupted by a sound like ten simultaneous thunderclaps. Another giant, even larger than the one destroying the entrance hall, burst out from the forest.

 

“RUN!”

 

* * *

 

  
“The Cloak!” Hermione said in an undertone, “Put the Cloak on!”  
Harry complied, and snuffed out his wandlight.

She crawled behind Ron, who crawled behind Harry, down a painfully narrow tunnel. The opening at the end was concealed by a large, rotting crate, and the three of them crouched to look out through the miniscule gap between the crate and the wall. The Shrieking Shack was shambolic as always: Grim, dingy, and dusty. Nagini was suspended in a sphere in the centre of the room; Hermione blinked, and in that split second when her eyes were closed, she saw that damned snake darting towards her in Bathilda’s bedroom.  
A table stretched across the length of their peephole, at one end of which, a ghostly pale, skeletal hand tapped its fingers rhythmically against the wood.

  
 

* * *

 

At the brink of death, Severus Snape lost all his cold, sneering stateliness. He was bloodless and slumped against a wall, with his limbs all bent at awkward angles like a discarded puppet.  
Hermione didn’t want to see this – she did _not_ want to be present for the moment in which his last breath would leave him, and his heart would stop, and his face would slacken. But what could she do but observe helplessly as Harry moved towards their fading former potions master?  
Was he feeling pity... Would he tell Snape that he deserved such an end? She bit her lip to contain a whimper... Ron took hold of her hand, but she shook him off. She didn’t want comfort, she wanted to _leave_.  
Harry crouched by Snape’s side, and they both stared at each other – one impassive, the other devastated. Snape started to cry – _dear lord_ – and burbling through the tears, he choked, “Take... it... Take... it...”  
His tears turned silver – the silver of ejected memories – and Hermione promptly conjured a flask and shoved it into Harry’s hand.

Snape’s memories filled the flask to the brim. With his final burst of energy, the sorry, despicable man grabbed Harry by the collar.  
“Look... at... me...”

  
Hermione turned around, unable to watch any longer.

  
A while later, the sound of Snape's rasping, rattling breathing stopped completely.

 _The Death of the Hired Man._  
Everything was suddenly very still... and very quiet.

 

*

 

  
The strange, disturbing calm thereafter didn’t last long. As before, Voldemort’s awful voice resounded inside and out:  

 “ _You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.  
“I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour._ ”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, #Frexit really sucks.
> 
> I've written another palette cleanser.... a silly, absurd, not at all slow-burny songfic called 'Ra-Ra-Rasputin': https://archiveofourown.org/works/14505363  
> Over the weeks, there will be more of those.


	41. Forty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue here has been borrowed from DH.

 

Professor Flitwick's leg was hanging on by a thread of skin. The poor man was lying on a mattress on the floor, breathing hard as a mediwizard tried to stick it back on. That was the first thing Hermione saw as she dithered by the large arched doorway during Voldemort's temporary ceasefire.  
Beyond him was another mattress where Michael Corner was getting his swollen eye tended to. Next, on a stool, Parvati was sobbing inconsolably into her sister's shoulder. Hermione met Padma's eye with a question in her own... but all she got in lieu of a response was a heavy sigh.  
The scene at the Great Hall was a compounded visual of the desolation of battle. It was a composite image of the consequence – _Impression, War_.  
There were no tables, no chairs, no decorous candle stands; no air of splendour. Mattresses laid out in tidy lines all around the room accommodated the injured. The medical staff, in maroon robes, rushed around administering potions and aid.  
But it was the sounds that truly drove the reality home. Sobs, wails, gasps, cries of pain...

It was enough to make Hermione want to cover her ears and run. She'd been standing like a statue for... well, who could say how long. Her heart was in her throat, and she couldn't cope with the amount of emotion surging through her. And she was... alone? Where had Harry and Ron gone? Really – how long had she been standing there?

  
"Miss?"  
She shuddered and turned around. A kindly looking young mediwitch held up a jar of thick purple paste.  
"Your back is bleeding, miss," she said, "May I?"  
"No – no," Hermione stuttered, "I'm fine."  
"Your shirt is soaked through."  
"It's fine – I'm fine," she insisted shakily, "Please, there are people far worse off –"  
"And they are being tended to," the mediwitch said gently, "Let me heal you, miss... it won't take long."  
Hermione sighed, and nodded, finally forcing herself to enter the Hall. The mediwitch made her sit on a stool, and conjured a simple screen to cover them. "Shirt off, please."  
Hermione obeyed, twisting her matted, knotted, singed hair into a tight bun. Even cool air stung against her exposed back, and she hissed and closed her eyes the moment it was touched.  
"It'll be better in a mo," her healer assured her, "Dear me, I can't believe you were willing to ignore this, miss... And if you would let me tend to those burns on your arm as well..."  
And it did get better. She could feel the harsh, throbbing pain recede, and the feeling of having something wet and oozy on her skin disappeared.  
"There. All done."  
"Thank you," Hermione whispered, and slipped her shirt back on.

  
She stepped out from behind the screen and nearly walked straight into Oliver Wood carrying a... a... body on his shoulder. He passed by, and she steeled herself to glance at the face hanging halfway down his back. She stopped breathing – it was Colin. Scrawny, sweet, overenthusiastic Colin Creevey. Dead.

Oliver carried Colin over to the middle of the hall. That was where the deceased lay in a line. Hermione swallowed, and her throat was so parched, it was painful.  
She knew, even as the nausea and unbearable terror paralyzed her cognition, that that slow, hesitating walk to the row of dead people was something she'd remember forever. She measured every step, she counted every breath...

 

Next to Colin lay a young, bearded man whom she recognised to be the shop assistant at Honeydukes. There was a boy from Ravenclaw and his skull seemed to have caved in. There were men and women in Auror robes, faces she saw around Grimmauld place and the Burrow during Order meetings... and oh god... there was Diggle. Dead.  
Another Ravenclaw, three Hufflepuffs, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor... Lying with a dried up gash across her throat was the girl Hermione had thought was probably called Martha.  
Hufflepuff, Auror... Slytherin... Ravenclaw, and –

Hermione fell to her knees with a choking gasp. Lavender. _No!_ She'd saved her! She'd blasted Greyback off her. No no no no no.  
Her eyes were half open. There was blood all over her face, and matting her hair; Lavender would never have stood for that. Not her _hair._ Trembling, Hermione cast a cleaning charm. Free of blood, and with her eyes closed, she looked like she was sleeping.  
"I'm so, so _sorry_ ," Hermione whispered.

Then she stood up and walked on. Hufflepuff, a man with hair exactly like dad's, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw.  
Why the hell didn't she know all their names? There were so many that were just faces to her. Dead faces.

_  
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?_

  
She walked by six other unknown bodies. And then there were two familiar bodies. Very, very familiar bodies. Hermione's hands flew up to her mouth. Her vision swam. She wanted to scream, but she'd been hollowed out and filled with cement because her feet were stuck to the ground and her ears had closed up. All she could hear was a dull rushing sound. All she could see through her surging tunnel vision were Lupin and Tonks. Lupin and Tonks lying side by side... ashen, still, quiet, and dead. Dead.  
Lupin. Tonks.  
Tonks' hair was mousy brown... the way she wore it when at her lowest. The lines and shadows on Lupin's face seemed so much more prominent than usual.  
Hermione couldn't bring herself to move. Maybe if she stood long enough they'd take pity on her and wake up. Oh, _come on_ _Tonks_. And Lupin had always been so reliable.  
_Wake up,_ she urged, _please, please, PLEASE wake up_.  
_Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please –_

A wail that was the very soul of pathos sounded in her head.

No; not in her head.

  
The Weasleys were gathered around Fred's body a few metres away. Mrs Weasley, the source of that piercing wail, was lying across her fallen son's chest. Mr. Weasley sat close beside her, holding his fist against his mouth as he cried. Bill and Fleur were crying, Charlie was hiding behind his hands, Percy had his arm around Ron, Ginny stood a little apart mopping her blotchy face with a handkerchief.  
And kneeling by Fred's head was George... Hermione couldn't look at him for more than a fraction of a second. But even in that tiny fragment of time, she registered the mask of shock, discomposure, and agony that his face had become. It reflected the kind of pain that was _savage_ , that was unrivalled in its intensity.  
Their grief was what finally unglued Hermione's feet.

She promptly strode towards Ginny, who looked up at her nearly as soon as she'd taken the first step. Her face creased, like all at once, she'd lost the ability to keep herself together. Hermione ran.  
She hugged her distraught friend tightly, and she pinched her own lips between her teeth to hold back her whimpers as Ginny sobbed, "Fred... Fred... _Fred_..." into her shoulder.

 

*

 

Trapped in a purgatory, she almost found herself craving the brutal chaos of battle, the turbulent heat of a raging fire, the all-consuming adrenaline rush experienced during a violent duel...  
She was sitting now, on a bench she'd conjured once holding Ginny up had gotten too difficult. Ginny's head was in her lap, and Hermione stroked the short, damp strands away from her face. She wasn't crying anymore.  
Mrs. Weasley, too, had stopped weeping. Instead, she seemed to have appropriated George's look of devastation, and that of course, was infinitely worse. Hermione cast her eyes around the hall, searching for the smallest spark of something _good_ to cauterise the giant, gaping open wound that was her soul. By the door, Neville and Seamus were carrying more bodies inside. She felt the force of a thousand knives twisting in her gut as she saw that one of them had dirty blond hair... But then she noticed the Hufflepuff robes and hated herself for the immense relief that surged through her.

She looked at the crumbling walls, at the shattered floor. She watched the healers scuttling about like wind-up toys. She glanced at Slughorn comforting the dozen or so students of his house who'd opted to stay and fight. She glimpsed Professors McGonagall and Sprout whispering closely as the former got a cut across her cheek mended.  
But no matter how hard she tried, her eyes sought Fred. She didn't know how it was possible for him to look the way he looked – he'd always been packed with life enough for a hundred people – and now...  
Her eyes sought Lupin and Tonks – she gasped, softly, for they were no longer alone. Luna was sitting by Tonks' side, with one of her hands between both of hers. Next to her was Theo, with his eyes mournfully downcast. Malfoy knelt in the space between Lupin and Tonks' heads, looking from one to the other to the other to the other...  
His hair that used to always look so neat, was falling messily into his eyes and hiding them from the world. Or perhaps hiding the world from him?

Hermione's makeshift bench creaked. Ron eased himself down on Ginny's other side, and blinked at Hermione, once, with faded, red-rimmed eyes. He squeezed his sister's shoulder, and she immediately lifted off Hermione's lap and curled into his side. He put an arm around her and laid his head on hers.  
Feeling like an intruder, Hermione quietly slipped away. She wished Harry was around, but by his marked absence, she'd deduced that he was in Dumbledore's old office, swimming around in Snape's memories.  
So she sidled up to Theo and Luna, and as unobtrusively as possible, sat down next to them. They didn't speak at all; rather, they communicated through expressive looks and subtle nods. It didn't feel right to say _anything_ that wasn't profoundly, divinely meaningful. And nobody had anything meaningful to say. Malfoy didn't look up even once.

 

*  


 

Wasn't the hour up yet? Hermione's watch had broken.

 

  
*

 

"Oh, thank you, thank you! Ah, I'm just orl over t' place..."  
On her way to see Flitwick, Hermione stopped to help a portly mediwitch who'd spilled all her supplies while rushing from one patient to the next.  
She kept her vision trained straight ahead as she passed the dead for the second time. At the far end of the hall, Kingsley had gathered the remaining Aurors. Parvati was still crying all over Padma, and now she knew why. Her best friend had died, and Hermione had not a single word to say to her. Like a coward, she bowed her head and walked on.

But alas, the Charms' professor was no longer lying on his mattress.  
"There are still lots of people buried under the rubble, he went to look for them," Michael Corner said from the next mattress. His eye looked much better. "They told him to rest, and he said nothing doing," he added proudly.  
"How are you?" Hermione asked.  
"Not bad. Pomfrey says the blindness is most likely temporary..."  
She swallowed, "Oh... um..."

  
"Hermione!"  
She spun around with alacrity to see Neville waving her over as he helped a young boy with an injured leg. She bid Michael a hasty farewell and joined Neville just as he handed his charge over to a mediwizard. He looked so much more than merely exhausted.  
"Why don't you sit down, Neville?" she offered softly, "Let me take over for a while."  
"Nah, s'alright," he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly; clearly the weakness of his flesh was nothing when compared to the willingness of his spirit. "I'm okay. Why aren't you with Harry?"  
"He... there was something he had to do..."  
"Yeah. That's what he told me, and –"  
A small man carrying a tray loaded with goblets of water stopped to offer them a drink. Hermione felt a slow uneasiness build up inside her.  
"Oh, Merlin, _yes_ ," Neville sighed, and chugged his lot in one go. "Ooof. That's better."  
"Right. Neville. What did Harry tell you exactly?"  
"Just that he has to do something. It's part of the plan. And he told me to kill the snake. You-Know-Who's snake, that is, in case you or Ron were bus–"  
"Where was he going?" Hermione demanded, her hands closing into fists.  
"He didn't say..."  
"Which way then, Neville!" she exclaimed impatiently, "The headmaster's office, or...?"  
"Er, no. He went outside. Into the grounds – Oi, where are you off to?!"

  
Hermione tore across the Hall, sped past the dead, and skidded to a stop before Ron, who was still cradling Ginny.  
"Ron – _shit_ – Harry – he's –" she panted.  
"What?" Ron asked hoarsely.  
"Harry – Harry's GONE!"  
"What do you mean?" Ginny spluttered, "Where's he gone?"  
" _Aah!_ " Hermione was furious with herself for taking so long to get the fucking point across. "He's GONE. To the forest! To turn himself in!"  
"WHAT?"  
" _What?!_ WHAT?"

Ron and Ginny were on their feet in a flash. Ron took both their hands and began pulling them ahead, but they'd barely made any progress when Voldemort's all-pervading voice swelled around them.

" _Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.  
"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There will be no more war. Anybody who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together._ "

 

The last syllable of that announcement echoed for an inconceivable stretch of time.  
' _...ther ...ther ...ther ...ther..._ '  
Nobody moved, and silence was total and all-encompassing. Stillness and quiet so intense, that Hermione imagined she could actually see the minute disturbances in the air that the last traces of Voldemort's voice was causing. They were just words – no, arbitrary sounds that had the semblance of words. It had been an empty speech. A ruse.  
Because Harry could not be dead.

Ron's hand was still in hers and clammy with sweat. She pulled free of his increasingly tightening grip; her mouth opened and closed around half-formed thoughts that would never materialise vocally, because just then, a horrifying, nerve-jangling scream sounded from outside.  
Like Hokusai's Great Wave, the entire population of the Great Hall rose and surged forward en-masse, frothing with anxiety, churning with terror.

At the forefront, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were the first to walk out of the castle. The first thing Hermione saw was McGonagall, crumpled by the main doors. She was entirely bloodless... shaking...

They walked down the front steps...

Hermione barely noted the Death Eaters, Voldemort, his vile fucking snake, Bellatrix... Because there was Hagrid – _Oh, he was alive!_ – and – in his arms – limp and motionless –

 

"No!" she shrieked, stumbling, catching herself on her knees. "NO!" she choked, as bile bubbled up her throat.  
"Harry!"  
" _No!_ "  
She heard Ron and Ginny mirror her devastating anguish... then the entire crowd behind them blew up. It was all muted though, as Hermione's ears clogged up again. The ferocious roaring she could hear was her own blood gushing about.  
Harry's head was resting against Hagrid's enormous forearm. His eyes were closed. Forever.  
" _Oh_ ," she groaned, wanting to curl up right there on the ground – to hell with Voldemort and his fucking war. To hell with everything.

  
"SILENCE!" Voldemort boomed, and there was a shot of lightening, followed by a thunderclap, that forced the multitude to comply. "It is over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"  
Hagrid obeyed, though with a look of pure torture on his face, and he placed Harry gently on the grass, straight on his back.  
"You see? Voldemort hissed victoriously, "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones?"

(Surely Hermione was deluded, and her tired eyes were playing mean tricks, for she was ready to swear that Harry's left eye had just... twitched.)

"He was nothing, ever, but a boy..."

(Oh, Harry, Harry, _Harry_.)

"...who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"  
"He beat you!" Ron yelled, taking a bold step forward. The throng cheered raucously, till another thunderclap reinforced silence.  
"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," Voldemort cried, "Killed while trying to save himself –"

That's when a hundred simultaneous motions and sounds erupted, getting streamlined into one blazing torrent of action –  
A thick burst of arrows came flying out of the Forbidden Forest and rained down on the Death Eaters, and as they scattered, Grawp emerged from around the side of the castle, crying for Hagrid. In retaliation, Voldemort's army of giants roared... But then! A squawk from above! It was Dumbledore's phoenix, a burst of brilliant red against the dark sky, and he dropped a misshapen looking lump right into the middle of the crowd –

  
Hermione lost track of things when centaurs charged out of the forest, brandishing bows and swords. Death Eaters swarmed forward to meet them. Thestrals descended from high above, their hooves lashing out at the Giants who were trying to tear Grawp apart. They were all forced to skitter back as one of the largest giants keeled over when Buckbeak went for his face with his impressive talons. A mushroom cloud of dust erupted...  
...There was sure to be a giant stampede imminently...  
And in the midst of this mad chaos, when Death Eaters and Hogwart's defenders were all being forced to retreat back into the castle, Neville let out a fierce cry like an enraged Berserker. He had the sword of Gryffindor in his hand as he leapt forward and sliced Nagini's head right off.

 

* * *

 

It occurred to Hermione that she might die.

Of course, it had been a distinct possibility all year, but somehow, being locked in a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, while using the deranged witch's own wand doubled the probability of that outcome.  
Hermione was as scared as she'd ever been.

"Impudent little mudblood," Bellatrix growled, "I should have finished you off when I had a chance. Did you miss me? _Crucio!_ "  
Hermione dived to the side frantically, and just then, a tiny little House-Elf scuttled right over to Bellatrix and stabbed her leg with a fork. She howled in agony and aimed a kick at the House-Elf.  
"HOW DARE YOU?" she bellowed.  
Hermione couldn't revel in the wonder of Bellatrix being battered by a House-Elf for the second time for long.  
" _Avada Kedavra,_ " and the poor, valiant Elf fell; its large globular eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Hermione lost it.  
" _Diffendo, Eviscero, SECTUMSEMPRA!_ "  
Bellatrix only cackled, delighted by her unhinged fury. "Oo-er! The mudblood's got a bit of fire! I'm _almost_ impressed _– Crucio!_ "  
"I'll show you fire... _INCENDIO!_ "  
With a wave of her wand, Bellatrix's wiped out the giant ball of flames.  
" _Flagello!_ " Hermione roared.  
Bellatrix spun out of the way, but the ends of her robes got shredded. She glared at Hermione with furious disbelief; "I am officially _sick_ of you. _Avada Ked –_ "  
Bellatrix stumbled, and fell flat on her arse – a jelly-legs curse by the looks of it – revealing a panting and wild-eyed Theo standing behind her.  
" _Nott Jr._!?" she screeched, "Oh you – you – well your father will just have to deal with not being the one who kills you!"  
She lifted her wand, primed and determined. Her eyes narrowed... her mouth opened... And Hermione acted.  
Without a thought, without a single misgiving or doubt, she levitated an enormous chunk of fallen rock and mortar, (possibly the size of a jeep,) and dropped it on Bellatrix. Unceremoniously, undramatically; Bellatrix didn't even realise...  
And now she never would.

  
What – what had she done?  
Theo stepped around the boulder, gaping at her in awe. She swayed uncertainly towards him.

 

"NO!" A vehement roar of utmost ferocity had Hermione spinning around... What she saw left her both light headed and ossified: Lord Voldemort with his teeth bared, pointing his want directly at her. Well now... now she really was going to die.

"STOP!"  
It was a powerful, commanding exclamation, in a voice she knew too well... but that simply was not possible! Everybody – Voldemort included – looked this way and that witlessly...

 

At first it was just a subtle warping of light.  
Then an audible flourish.  
Then, what was once empty air was suddenly occupied.

Looking very much alive, Harry Potter walked calmly up to Voldemort, unarmed, unruffled, and firmly announced to all the shocked bystanders: "I don't want anyone else to help. It's got to be like this. It's got to be me."

 

*

 

The sky had begun to faintly lighten, as though in sync with what seemed to be the last showdown of the battle. In the centre of the Great Hall, Harry and Voldemort stood facing each other. The distance between them – some ten metres or so – fizzled with tempered electricity... electricity that radiated outwards and ran into a giant ring of speechless spectators.  
Hermione was sandwiched between Theo and Ron, and perhaps it was only their fortifying presence that was keeping her from suffering a spontaneous brain haemorrhage. Straight across the hall, beyond the fated rivals, she saw Ginny clinging desperately onto Charlie's arm, Neville, (who was still holding the sword,) and Malfoy.

Voldemort raised his wand, and with his awful red eyes fixed on Harry hissed, "Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"  
Harry met his stare unflinchingly. "Nobody. There are no more Horcruxes. It's just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good."  
"One of us?" Voldemort taunted with a laugh, "You think it will be you, do you, the boy who has survived by accident, and because Dumbledore was pulling the strings? You don't even have a wand! I am going to kill you, Harry Potter, and then I will kill every last one of your friends."  
"You won't be killing anyone else tonight," Harry countered boldly, "You won't be able to kill any of them ever again. Don't you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people –"  
"But you did not!"  
"– I meant to, and that's what did it. I've done what my mother did. They're protected from you. You don't learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?"  
"You dare –"  
"Yes, I dare," said Harry, "I know things you don't know, Tom Riddle. I know lots of important things that you don't. Want to hear some, before you make another big mistake?"

There was hunger behind Voldemort's cold, waxy facade. He kept his wand raised, but it was clear he wouldn't strike till Harry had revealed his secrets.  
"Is it love again?" he hissed, "Dumbledore's favourite solution. But nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?"  
"Just one thing."  
Voldemort laughed a horrible, unhinged, metallic laugh. "Surely you don't believe that you have magic that I do not, or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"  
"I believe both," said Harry, and quite suddenly, Voldemort's laughter died down.  
"You think you know more magic than I do?" he spat, "Than I, than Lord Voldemort? I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"  
"You thought you did. But you were wrong."

Hermione gasped, and she wasn't the only one. Shocked murmurs spread around the room.  
"Dumbledore is dead!" Voldemort bellowed.  
Complete silence was reinstated.  
"Yes," Harry agreed, "Dumbledore is dead. But you didn't have him killed. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died. Severus Snape wasn't yours. Snape was Dumbledore's. Dumbledore's from the moment you started hunting down my mother. And you never realized it, because of the thing you can't understand. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle? Snape's Patronus was a doe... the same as my mother's, because he loved her for nearly all of his life, from the time when they were children."  
("Merlin," Ron breathed.)  
"None of that matters!" thundered Voldemort, "Dumbledore is still dead, and I killed Severus Snape three hours ago. The Elder Wand – the Wand of Destiny – is truly mine! Dumbledore's last plan went wrong, Harry Potter! And now I will end you."  
Harry nodded calmly, his empty hands resting easily at his sides. "Before you try to kill me, I'd advise you think what you've done ... Think, and try for some remorse, Riddle..."  
"What is this?"

Really – what was that? Hermione had never heard Harry speak like that. He had a plan, didn't he? He had to have a plan. Had he a wand stashed under his jumper?

"It's your one last chance," Harry went on, "it's all you've got left... I've seen what you'll be otherwise... Be a man... try... Try for some remorse..."  
"You DARE –?"  
"Yes, I dare. Because Dumbledore's last plan hasn't backfired on me at all. It's backfired on you, Riddle..."  
(The electric charge between them intensified. The tension grew more taught, more severe, more nerve-wrecking... water forming a dome above the brim of a goblet, just _seconds_ away from spilling over...)  
"...That wand still isn't working properly for you because you murdered the wrong person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wand. He never defeated Dumbledore."  
"He killed –"  
"Aren't you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore's death was planned between them! Dumbledore intended to die, undefeated, the wand's last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand's power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!"  
"But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave me the wand!" Voldemort said with explicit glee, "I stole the wand from its last master's tomb! Its power is mine!"  
"You still don't get it, Riddle, do you? Possessing the wand isn't enough! The wand chooses the wizard... The Elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance. The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."

Another series of gasps broke out around her. Theo jerked involuntarily. Hermione's eyes flickered past Harry and Voldemort to look at Malfoy – he was astonished. Eyes round, lips parted –

"But what does it matter? Even if you are right, Potter, it makes no difference to you and me. You don't even have a wand anymore – I saw to that in the forest. After I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy..."  
(Theo twitched again. Across the room, Malfoy came back to himself; he glowered at Voldemort.)  
"You're too late, you've missed your chance," said Harry, "I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took his wand from him. So it all comes down to this, doesn't it? Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does... I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

Voldemort hissed. His stance changed to a combative one. And Harry – like he had all those months ago in Perkin's tent – raised his empty hand and shouted, " _Accio_ Elder Wand!"  
It slipped right out of Voldemort's cadaverous fingers, spun across the space in between, and landed neatly in Harry's grasp.  
Voldemort stumbled back in horror, in blind _terror_ , "What – no – NO –"

Harry didn't waste any more time. He pointed the most powerful wand at the most evil wizard and crisply intoned, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "  
There was nothing graceful about the way Tom Riddle fell. One moment he was standing, petrified with fear, and the next he was an inglorious heap on the ground, his vacant, expressionless face drenched in the orange glow of dawn.  
In the shocked silence that followed, the faint swish of air that sounded when Harry lowered his hand was clearly audible – as was the soft expulsion of air that escaped from his lungs.

 

Then the Great Hall exploded. Cheers rang all around and burst out into the illusory sky above.  
_"YES!"_ – " _YEAH!" – "HARRY...!" – "HE DID IT!" –_  
Jubilant cries echoed endlessly; people abandoned the circle formation and dashed ahead to pounce on Harry.  
Hermione found herself being lifted off the ground...  
Ron spun her around in circles – "It's over! We did it!" – And then he was charging towards Harry, too...  
Theo pressed her to his side... she felt him kiss the top of her head... but soon he was off too, dashing through the crowd in search of Luna.  
Another set of arms hugged Hermione from behind. She only figured out who it was when he let go and ran ahead, whooping with delight: Seamus.  
"Oh _Merlin!_ " – " _Yes!_ " – " _YES!_ "

The unbridled frenzy of joy bordered on madness. She was being pushed around, knocked aside by bodies rushing ahead, and pulled into random embraces.  
Grawp's celebratory roars were, of course, the loudest. House-Elves were banging their pots and pans with forks and ladles. Aurors were rushing to and fro, apprehending Death Eaters before they could escape...

It was all over. It really was over.

 

Hermione knew she ought to go to Harry. She thought that she might be one of the few people he'd actually want to be with at the moment... but she simply couldn't bring herself to fight through the mob.  
Instead, she walked backwards; back, back, back, until she'd broken free of the mass entirely. Then she turned around and ran.

 

* * *

 

On the fifth floor there was an exquisite tapestry depicting a forest full of frolicking nymphs and unicorns, in a style strongly redolent of Botticelli. The battle had left it in tatters. The Nymphs were hiding behind trees, and the unicorns wandered about the blank landscape forlornly.

Right next to the tapestry there was a giant hole in the wall. Hermione walked towards it, stepping over piles of rubble and debris. She could see the new day breaking outside, all around the wrecked castle walls, over the placid lake...  
It turned everything a brilliant, saturated orange; it was reprehensibly beautiful. Oh, the merciless cosmic consistency of the world at large... it could go bugger itself.

  
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

  
Where was her cheer, you ask? Where was her relief and optimism? – It had gone the way of Fred Weasley. Her mind, which always insisted on jumping ten steps ahead, thought about tiny Teddy Lupin, now an orphan.  
It just wasn't fair. They had been fighting the good fight, doing the right thing... why did they have to pay the ultimate price? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.  
Voldemort was dead, and that wasn't enough. Bellatrix was dead – _because of her_ – and even that wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough. " _We won,_ " they'd shouted downstairs... but had they really? Was this victory? Burying the cold, stiff corpses of good, brave, well-loved people... was that really a victory?  
As she gazed at the blazing Noldean sky and the bloody _perspective_ it was trying to shove down her throat, she felt an uncontainable rage. It speared through her like a shockwave, making her eyes tear up and her teeth gnash together.  
Jesus Christ, she wanted to maul something. Her skin was prickling. Her nerves were sizzling. She wanted to – wanted to – wanted to –

 

There were footsteps from behind, and as much as she hungered to incinerate the intruders... she took a breath, clenched her fists, and peered over her shoulder.  
It was Theo. And Luna. And Malfoy.  
And right then, she found her outlet.

She turned her back to the shimmering red-yellow, spinning around to glare at Malfoy. He stopped dead in his tracks, looking back at her in a way that was almost... stunned.  
"You," she fumed, "What are _you_ doing here?"  
The change in his face was instantaneous. "What?" he scowled.  
"What. Are. You. Doing. Here." She took three furious steps ahead, "Why the _hell_ are _you_ here?"  
"Have you lost your mind?" Malfoy growled.  
"Hermione..." Theo murmured.  
"Shouldn't you be down in the Great Hall, basking in the glory of _your_ triumph? Shouldn't you be demanding that people thank you for all your contributions? Kiss your fucking boots? Or have you come to collect mine? It's what... thrice... you've saved my life now, right? Oh, THANK YOU, Malfoy," she kicked a stone by her feet, and it skittered across the floor and hit the top of Malfoy's shoe, "Thank you, and _thank you_."  
Malfoy's hair and eyes had soaked up the orange light terrifically. He looked daggers at her, and began in a menacing snarl – "Listen, you fucking –"  
"No, _you_ listen," she bayed, "Who do you think you are? Asking people to _thank_ you like you aren't a total piece of shit... Sitting by Tonks and Lupin like you fucking _knew_ them. You didn't. You wouldn't even accept them as human, let alone a part of your family. You arsehole. You smug... you... you _charlatan_."  
"Fucking BITCH," Malfoy roared, and made to charge towards her. Theo jumped in front of him just in time.  
"Let's go, Draco. Please, leave it. Let's –"  
"Who do you think YOU are?" Malfoy yelled, struggling against Theo, "Let me _go_ , Theo... someone needs to shove that cunting shrew off her high horse –"  
"Go to hell, Malfoy," Hermione spat, "You're the one on a high horse. Mighty proud of yourself, aren't you? Think you've made up for – for – everything. God, if you spend even the rest of your life apologising to the world, it wouldn't be enough."  
Theo put all his strength into pushing Malfoy away, even as the latter fought to shake him off. Not for a second did his flashing eyes move away from Hermione.  
"I have _nothing_ to apologise for!"  
Hermione laughed. It was bitter, incredulous, and ugly. "You tormented people. You made their lives hell. Harry, Ron... _Neville_ –"  
"Are you fucking ser– GROW UP –"  
"– And you can't exactly ask for Dumbledore's forgiveness now, can –"  
Theo had managed to drag Malfoy halfway down the corridor. "HE should be apologising to ME!"  
Hermione laughed again – her harsh, ugly laugh – "Of course, he should. Nothing's ever on you, is it? Everybody owes _you_ something. Such an entitled bloo–"  
"Shut the _fuck_ up!"

But that was the last thing that could be said. Theo and Malfoy disappeared around the corner at the end of the corridor.  
"AARGH!" Hermione shrieked, and her cry echoed, drowning out the dwindling scuffling noise of Malfoy's forced retreat.

 

Then there was utter silence, except for the mellowed twittering of birds. Luna was watching her cautiously as though scared to come close.

 

"Oh god," Hermione gasped. Her arms wrapped around her ribs as she tried to hold herself together. "Oh god," and she crumpled.  
"Oh god, oh god, oh god."

* * *

 

                                      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I would like to tender an apology to ElleMartin for the fate of poor Lavender. I know how you feel about her. I am not quite as sorry for depriving Molly Weasley of her moment of glory, nor for not letting Harry's hands stay squeaky clean.
> 
> Well - This is it then. I have put away the Deathly Hallows, and we're well done with canon. (I'm sure we all feel the same way about the epilogue.)
> 
> There's just one thing I'd like to address, since there has been some talk about slow-burns of late: I really hadn't planned on it being THIS SLOW. The original story was going to be a post-war fic, where I'd have explained the minor deviations via flashbacks and introspective paragraphs.  
> But then... I didn't want to write about just one relationship. I wanted to write about struggle, and growth, and friendship... and then Theo popped up, and I couldn't not give him his time in the spotlight. I love you all for loving him.
> 
> And I love you all for staying with this story. What comes next is hurt and anguish... for a bit. Then rehabilitation and healing. More growth and friendship. And yes... love.  
> So, stick with me, kid. We'll go... somewhere or the other.


	42. Forty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this... but then I doubt I ever will be. Hope it's alright.

                    

                       ( _Aesthetic made by[Jess8600](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess6800)_ )

 

 

Less than a year ago, the Hermione Granger who'd stood in front of Ginny's dresser had been all dressed up for a wedding. In her beautiful lilac dress, she'd been at the prime of her prettiness.  
Who was that girl, and who was this girl _now_... the one currently being reflected, emaciated, pale, and haunted looking? Who was she with her pointy little shoulders and her skinny legs sticking out of sleep shorts with purple rings under her eyes and burnt, tangled hair?  
Hermione took a pair of big bronze scissors and began cutting away the charred locks.  
_Snip. Snip. Snip._  
The frayed curls fell haphazardly to the floor, so unlike the shiny, fiery strands that had surrounded Ginny's feet less than a year ago.  
Less than a year ago.  
How had the world overturned in _less than a year_?

 _Snip. Snip. Snip._  
The Burrow was quiet – so painfully quiet – so _abnormally_ quiet – and perhaps quiet forevermore. It had been fourteen hours since the fall of Voldemort, and George had locked himself up in what used to be the room he'd shared with Fred. Where, less than a year ago, she'd snuck in to steal some Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products.  
And then she'd come out to find Fred waiting for her with a knowing little smile on his face. Less than a year ago, and now he was dead.

 _Snip. Snip. Snip._  
Early in the day, after she'd... lashed out at Draco Malfoy, Hermione had taken half an hour to collect herself. Then Luna had put a gentle arm around her and taken her back down to the Great Hall, where finally, Hermione got her audience with Harry.  
They'd hugged for an endless moment, and she'd broken down against his chest, against his – against all odds – still beating heart...

 _Snip. Snip. Snip._  
Hermione, Harry, and Ron sat on the damp grass by Dumbledore's grave, after Harry had slipped the elder wand back inside it. Kreacher appeared with a loud _pop_ and a plate full of sandwiches, which they'd listlessly chomped on, while Harry told them how he'd come to be the boy who lived _again_. It all sounded impossible. The whole thing. King's Cross Limbo. Talking to a dead man. _Choosing_ not to go "on"...

 _Snip. Snip. Snip._  
But the thing that Hermione was most stuck on was what "on" meant. She wondered if she'd have been able to come back, like Harry so easily had. How had he done that? The answer to life's greatest mystery, _what dreams may come once we have shuffled off this mortal coil_ , had been just a train ride away.

 _Snip. Snip. Snip.  
_ She hadn't realised it then, with all the chaos and madness, but in the chamber of secrets, when the Horcrux had tried to distract her using the lure of knowledge and secrets, she'd been tempted. Dangerously tempted.  
So was the 'Brightest Witch of Her Age' really a compliment at all, or a shameful, ironic summation of her greatest weakness? Was she really such a doomed Faustian caricature?  
_Snip. Snip. Snip._

She'd have boarded that train. The living world was absolute shite anyway.

Hermione put the scissors down, and stared at herself without blinking till her vision blurred. Her formerly waist-length mass of hair now fell to just about the middle of her back. With a sigh and a flick of Bellatrix's wand, she vanished the pile of hair around her. Since Bellatrix had die– since Hermione had _killed_ Bellatrix, the wand had been working perfectly well for her. A trophy. How lovely.

She'd so have boarded that train.

 

The sound of the door opening had her refocusing her eyes, and reflected over her shoulder she saw Ginny walking into the room.  
"Hi," said Hermione softly.  
"Hi," Ginny replied, softer still. She had two vials in her hand full of some purple coloured potion.  
"Er... dreamless sleep?" Hermione asked.  
"Yeah. I thought we could use it. Gave some to Harry and Ron, too."  
They both wandered over to their respective beds, with a vial in hand. Hermione slipped under the covers, knocked back the potion in one gulp, and Ginny doused the lights.  
She lay in the semi-darkness with just a sliver of moonlight slipping through the gauze curtains that stretched across the window at the far end of the room, and waited desperately for oblivion to claim her. She closed her eyes, and saw the image of a boulder falling on Bellatrix in slow motion. Her eyes flew open again. God damn it, that was going to haunt her for fucking ever wasn't it? She was never going to be free of Bellatrix. Her wand, her death, her insidious, deranged cackle - they would follow her wherever she'd

 

* * *

 

 

When she woke up, sunlight was flooding into the room at an angle that suggested early afternoon. For a moment, Hermione watched golden dust mites dance in the shafts of light... so oblivion had come after all. She didn't feel refreshed or revived. Just awake. And that was enough of an accomplishment. Now, to get out of bed...

She threw the covers off, and swung her legs in an exaggerated arc before setting them on the floor. Her bare feet look so small and pale against Ginny's burgundy carpet. She stood up and stretched; her shoulders popped, and she tipped her head back, filling her lungs with air.

Awake. Alive. The war was over. And she was so scared.

There was a cup of steaming tea placed on her bedside table, and she blessed Ginny's endless thoughtfulness. She breathed in the aromatic brew – English breakfast, just as she liked it – and then took a sip. Strong, sweet, _just as she liked it,_ the war was over and she was so very scared.

With slow, shuffling steps she went to stand by the window, letting the summer sun hit her face, arms and bare legs. Sunshine on her skin, weaving into her hair, mingling with the steam from the tea and wafting up her nose...  
Sunshine, tea _just as she liked it_ , a new day, and the war was over.

The orchard outside was blossoming. The trees were heavy with fruit, and wild flowers were sprinkled all over the lush grass like colourful confetti. The sky was _so_ blue, with only three-four sparkling, fluffy white clouds to mar its smooth, gorgeous perfection. A beautiful summer's day; the war was over.

  
There was a sudden disturbance by the edge of her vision, and then Ginny was walking up to the grove. Actually, she was jogging: Her stride was quick and urgent. Harry followed moments later, but kept a good distance from her.  
Ginny paced madly in front of the trees; across the lush grass, under the blooming sky, warmed by the golden sun... she paced ferociously. With abandon. With desperation. Harry stood at one side and watched her.

The war was only over once you'd survived its aftermath.

 

*

 

Day one was quiet. Breakfast was quiet. Tea was quiet, but for Mrs. Weasley sniffling over her cup. Dinner was quiet, but for Bill telling Ron to _please pass the potatoes._ George didn't make an appearance.

Day two was quiet. The lunch they forgot to eat was quiet. Ginny grabbed her broom and disappeared for hours. Ron and Harry played chess quietly. George didn't make an appearance. Fred's hand on the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to _Lost_.

 

* * *

 

 

Day three was explosive.

Hermione, Harry, and Ron followed Mr. Weasley through the floo into the Ministry of Magic atrium. The traffic, the flurry of moving bodies popping in and out of the gilded fireplaces came to a standstill. Everybody stopped to stare at them.  
Of course, Hermione's mind was full of flashes from the last time they'd been there – her in Mafalda's body, running terrified as Yaxley and his team of Death Eater's chased after them. She could still feel the weight of the horcrux-pendent in her hand...

"Blimey," Ron breathed.  
She looked at what had caught his eye, and gasped. Gone was the ghastly statue of a witch and wizard on a throne of muggles, and gone was the tacky Fountain of Magical Brethren. Instead, standing in the middle of the atrium was a large obelisk made of lustrous white gold. They walked closer to see it was inscribed from top to bottom, with the names of all those who'd lost their lives since Voldemort's reign of terror began. Both times. Hermione, Harry, and Ron circuited around the structure while the crowd, still frozen, watched them.  
"It was one of the first things Kingsley saw to, as Minister," Mr. Weasley murmured.  
_Fred Weasley,_ she saw. _Lavender Brown. Remus Lupin_ , _Nymphadora Tonks._ _Edward Tonks. Dirk Cresswell._ A little further ahead: _Sirius Black._ She stopped when Harry did, in front of _James Potter. Lily Potter._

  
"Harry!" a voice boomed from behind them, and they all spun around. It was Kingsley, striding towards them. He was a new man, in his Ministerial garb; sophisticated and imposing. His robes were crisp and deep green, and his gold hoop earring glinted intensely even in the low lighting.  
He shook their hands, one by one, with a warm smile. "It's good to see you all."

He gestured down the hall to the golden gates at the end, and led them through security. The poor guards seemed at an utter loss to see the Minister of Magic and Harry Potter at the same time.

"Where's it happening then, Kingsley?" Mr Weasley asked as they stood waiting for a lift.  
"Conference room three. Level two. They – everybody's already there, waiting." Harry squirmed, and Kingsley caught it. "Don't worry," he tried to reassure him, "We've a strict schedule – ten minutes for you to speak, five minutes of Q-and-A, and then you're out of there."  
Hermione said, "And what about –"  
"Rita Skeeter has been categorically banned from the Ministry for the day," Kingsley smirked.

Then they were in a lift shooting downwards and Hermione's stomach, liver, kidneys, et al jumped into her throat. But even after the lift stopped, (" _Level Two – Department of Magical Law Enforcement,_ ") there was no time to let her organs settle back in place. Kingsley marched them down a corridor to a dark wood door flanked by two Aurors. He pulled it open and she reeled under overwhelming sensory overload.  
A hundred flashlights attached to a hundred cameras went off, and she was blinded. A deafening applause broke out... whistles... hoots... cheers...  
It was a good thing Mr. Weasley kept his hand on her back as she staggered her way to the long table that stretched across one end of the room.

 

Stage fright: Another awful old friend of Hermione Granger's. It didn't matter that Harry was the one who was standing at the podium and telling a sea of rapt faces all about Horcruxes and horror; she wanted to bolt. Her face was burning, both from mortification and due to the room's bright lights. The constant clicking of cameras, the scratching of numerous quills running over parchment, the sporadic gasps from the crowd at pivotal moments: It was all so dizzying.  
Hermione clasped her hands together and tried to focus on what Harry was saying.

 

"...erus Snape was loyal to Albus Dumbledore till the very end of his life. He sacrificed much for our cause, and I will always be grateful to him. If I am standing here today, it is as much thanks to him as it is to Dumbledore.  
"He made certain that I had the means to destroy the last of Riddle's Horcruxes, and he did his best to ensure that ultimately, the Elder Wand would end up in my possession."

An astonished buzz floated across the room, and Harry waited patiently for it to die down. Six cameras went off.

"So here's the thing: You have made me out to be some sort of lone hero... the _saviour_ ," Harry's mouth twisted, "But that's... well... a load of bollocks. _We_ have won the war, not me. People died for it. Families have been ripped apart, lives destroyed... and to hail one person as the _saviour_ is disrespecting all those people. All I did was deliver the final blow, and that was only made possible by my mother's love, my father's sacrifice, by Dumbledore's careful planning. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Snape's loyalty, and the support of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. The real heroes are the brave fighters of the Order of The Phoenix, so many of whom have lost their lives: Nymphadora Tonks, Alastor Moody, Dedalus Diggle... Fred Weasley. The real heroes are the teachers and students of Hogwarts; Dumbledore's Army who stood up to the atrocities taking place in their school. The resistance – the people behind _Potter Watch_ and _The Quibbler_ – they are the real heroes.  
"These two sitting here – Ron and Hermione – they're... they're... they're the best friends anyone could ever ask for."

And straight away, the sights and sounds of that overfilled room disappeared. Hermione stared at Harry's profile with a breath stuck in her throat.

"They stuck by me through everything –" (Ron lowered his eyes with chagrin,) "– Since I was eleven years old and had my first little rendezvous with the arch nemesis I never asked for. I would've been lost without them – without Ron's quick-thinking and spiritedness, and Hermione's unmatched _brilliance_ and tremendous magical skills. They're the real heroes."  
"So now you know everything I know. I have told you everything, and this is the last time I'm going to speak about this. Tom Riddle took my parents away from me. He stole my childhood, robbed me of my freedom, killed people I loved... but it's over now. I won't let him claim another second of my life after this. I would thank you to respect that."

And he stepped away from the podium and walked straight to the door, his mouth set in a straight, determined line, and his eyes hidden behind the glare that reflected off his glasses.  
"Harry Potter!" The crowd cried, "Wait! Mr. Potter! A question, please, Mr. Potter!"

  
Hermione exchanged a startled glance with Ron, with Kingsley, with Mr. Weasley, and the four of them jumped up to follow Harry out the door.  
"Show the reporters out, please, Matthew," Kingsley told one of the Aurors outside.

 

They caught up with Harry in front of the lifts.  
"I'm sorry," he muttered.  
"No, no, Harry," Mr. Weasley said promptly, "You did wonderfully."  
Hermione, Kingsley, and Ron nodded in earnest agreement.  
They didn't speak as they rode back up to the atrium, and only exchanged brief goodbyes once standing before a fireplace.  
But then Hermione cleared her throat, "Minister," she began.  
"Come now, Hermione," he chided gently, "That's Kingsley to you."  
"Right," she replied, averting her eyes. She'd thought about saying this so many times in the past three days... as objectively, as dispassionately as she could manage. But now her chin wobbled, and mouth dried up... oh but she had to say it. "Kingsley... I need a portkey."  
"A portkey...?"  
"Yes. To Melbourne. Australia. I'd... uh... My parents moved there, before the war. I'd like to bring them back."  
"Oh. But of course," he affirmed, and she finally found the courage to look him in the eye, "When would you like it?"  
"Um... ten days from now?"  
"Consider it done, Hermione."

 

*

 

She couldn't sleep that night so she wandered out in the garden by herself, breathing in the heady smell of jasmine. She looked heavenwards and sighed.

 _When he shall die,_  
Take him and cut him out in little stars,  
And he will make the face of heaven so fine  
That all the world will be in love with night  
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

 

*

 

The next morning, nobody looked at the papers.

 

* * *

 

 

"How's Luna?" Hermione asked.  
"Fine," Theo said with a sigh, running a hand through his shaggy hair, "She has to tend to Xeno all day. He isn't doing too well."  
She winced. "I thought the healer's had fixed him?"  
"The best they could. His right side is still almost completely paralyzed."

He'd come to visit her that evening, four days after the fall of Voldemort, and Hermione was so grateful to have a reason to be away from the oppressive gloom that shrouded everyone at the Burrow. She'd never felt like such an unwelcome stranger in that house before.  
They were sitting by that same damned scummy pond where Moody had deposited George and... Fred... less than a year ago.

Theo was – as always – wearing the scarf she'd made for him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him without it.

"How's everyone in there?" he asked, pointing to the burrow with his thumb.  
"Not good," Hermione whispered, "George never leaves his room. Ginny is angry most of the time. Mrs. Weasley keeps crying. Ron doesn't talk... Percy and Charlie don't talk... Mr. Weasley is always away at the Ministry – I think he _hates_ being at home. Bill and Fleur come by sometimes... but they barely talk as well." She squeezed her eyes shut before she could cry.  
"And Potter?"  
"He's actually doing better than anyone else. He is... free."

  
They lapsed into a bout of silence, watching tiny frogs splash in and out of the water. The radial ripples they caused, green and silver waves of motion, were hypnotic, especially when shot with the bright purple of the reflected sky of dusk.

  
Eventually, Theo leant back on his hands and said, "I'm selling Nott manor."  
"Seriously?" Hermione spluttered, glancing at him with wide eyes.  
He tipped his head back, and his hair, tinted blue, fell away from his face. "Yeah. It's never been my home. I don't want it. There are some Dittany cultivators who're interested in buying the land, and I'm getting a nice tidy sum for it. They're going to tear the manor down and I couldn't be happier."  
"But... but where will you live?"  
"Malfoy manor for now –"  
"You aren't staying with Luna?"  
"No," he ground out thinly, "Narcissa and Lucius are in custody... Draco shouldn't have to deal with all that alone."  
Guilt tickled Hermione's throat – this was the closest Theo would get to berating her for tearing into Malfoy; and it was enough. More than enough. She stared vacantly, awkwardly at the pond.  
"But anyway..." Theo went on, "the chap who's helping me negotiate the sale has found me a nice, spacious flat near Diagon."  
"Wow," Hermione breathed.  
With a nonchalant shrug, he turned to look at her. "But what about you? When are you going to get your parents back."  
"Soon," she said shakily, "After the funerals. I've spoken to Kingsley... asked him to fix me a portkey..."  
Theo nodded, then reached out to put an arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder and took in a deep breath. "Um... Theo?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Would you... I mean... do you think you might maybe consider... that is... if you want..."  
"Spit it out, darling."  
"Right... do you think you could... come with me?"  
Hermione braced herself for his refusal. It _was_ a little selfish of her to ask, what with his real estate issues, and Malfoy and Luna needing all the help they could get, and –  
"Are you seriously _asking_ me that?"  
"Sorry," she mumbled.  
"...What the hell?" He jostled her off his shoulder, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Did you think I'd refuse? You shouldn't even have to _ask_ , Hermione. Tell me the time and place, and I'll be there. Of course I'll be there. Silly fucking goose."  
She laughed a watery laugh.  
"C'mere," he said, and pulled her back into his side.

The sun set on another day.

"Theo. Thank y–"  
"Shut up."

 

* * *

 

 

Late in the morning of day five, Hermione slipped into plain black dress robes that she'd borrowed from Ginny, and had had to shrink more than the usual amount. She pulled her hair back into a prim bun, stepped into plain black shoes, and walked out of Ginny's room. She heard sobs as she passed the bathroom.

Harry and Charlie were the only ones in the garden when she arrived. Charlie was smoking, blowing perfect rings into the air. Harry tried to smile at her, but all his face did was twitch awkwardly. The three of them waited in silence. Bill and Fleur apparated in a few minutes later. Then Ron stomped across the lawn... then Percy... Mr. Weasley. Ginny walked over with her splotchy face held high. Harry took her hand. But all the while, they only exchanged terse nods, and nothing more. All in black, all hyper-aware of what they were about to do...  
It was only after an undertaker had portkeyed into the garden with a simple wooden casket that, finally, Mrs. Weasley showed up, a white lace handkerchief obscuring her face, and behind her, walking stiffly with his eyes locked on the progression of his feet, was George.  
He looked old, which was something neither of the twins had ever looked before, but everything else about him was perfectly in place. His hair was combed back, revealing the hole on one side of his head. His robes were neat and free of creases. His expression was stoic.

 

The party walked slowly through grassy, sun-dappled fields full of dandelions, daisies, bluebells, and poppies; through flourishing trees out of which wafted the intoxicating aroma of ripe fruit. A gentle, constant breeze flirted with the hems of their sombre robes.  
The undertaker was leading the way: Charon ferrying the gathering to their personal hell. Fred's casket was being carried by his siblings: Ron, Percy, and Bill on one side, and George, Ginny, and Charlie on the other. It was too plain, too austere to be Fred's final resting place. It wasn't right – wasn't right at all.  
The Weasley parents followed behind, clutching each other for support. Hermione and Harry brought up the rear. Nobody spoke, the birds sang, the bees hummed, and the leaves rustled.  
More people joined them along the way. Aunt Muriel, (her feathery hat replaced by a black netted veil,) Theo, Luna, and (Hermione blinked uncomfortably,) Malfoy. Then there came a few Weasley cousins, Kingsley, and Angelina. Lee Jordan, looking utterly faded, hastened to the front of the line to walk silently by George's side.  
There were more people gathered around the spot where Fred was to be entombed, amongst the graves of a hundred other Weasleys. Oliver, Alicia, Katie... many people from his year whose names Hermione didn't know. She nodded at Neville, Seamus, and Dean. McGonagall was there, with red-rimmed eyes, as were Hagrid, Hooch, Pomfrey, Sprout, and Flitwick. She was immensely surprised to see Argus Filch, of all people, standing to one corner, looking solemn.

Unlike Dumbledore's funeral – the only other magical funeral she'd attended – there was no minister-like figure presiding over the event. The Weasley siblings lay their brother down on the ground, and Mr. Weasley stepped forward. He stared at the unadorned casket for a long while, before finally whispering, "Goodbye, my boy," and waving his wand. The tomb he constructed was sleek and made of deep amethyst. On the headstone, in bright orange, was written:

_Here lies Fred Weasley, beloved son and brother.  
Wherever he goes there will be joy and laughter. _

Purple and orange.  
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes colours. Now that was fitting.

Mr. Weasley stepped back, and immediately his wife fell into him, crying dreadfully. One by one, the attendees walked up to conjure flowers before the tombstone. Flitwick outdid everyone by conjuring lilies made of what appeared to be stardust. Angelina bent and pressed a gentle kiss against the stone. Lee was trembling to badly his tulips were wonky.  
When it was Hermione's turn, she created a dense bushel of yellow and orange nasturtiums to grow around the entire tomb, encircling it in a vibrant ring. Someone squeezed her hand as she lowered her – Bellatrix's – wand, and she turned to see Ginny, offering her a weak, watery smile.

 

Hermione stepped away then, and watched the show go on from a distance. She watched as Alicia all but collapsed and had to be carried away. Theo and Luna, together, produced a delicate archway of bellflowers. Malfoy's tegetes and Sprout's sunflowers rather complemented Hermione's nasturtiums.

Most people left after they'd made their offering – the crowd thinned. Hagrid gave her a sorrowful wave as he trudged by.

 

Ultimately, just the Weasleys, Lee, Angelina, Harry, Theo, Luna, and Malfoy remained, the last three of whom walked up to Hermione. Well, Theo and Luna did, and Malfoy lingered stiffly some distance away.  
"We'll be leaving now," Theo told her, "Luna needs to get back to her dad..."  
"How is he now," Hermione asked, puckering her brow at Luna.  
"Better," Luna whispered, "Healers come to check up on him every day. And of course, pickled Gulping Plimpy fins are helping immeasurably."  
"That's good news," Hermione muttered.  
Theo smiled down at Luna with a great deal of affection before looking back at Hermione. "So... I'll see you later?"  
"Yes. Okay."

They walked away, and as Malfoy made to follow, Hermione said goodbye to prudence, and called out, "Malfoy! Wait!"

He froze. Theo froze. Luna froze. All three of them turned back to gape at her.  
Right.  
Hermione cleared her throat. "Could I – May I – have a word. Please. Malfoy."  
He was looking at her so blankly that she wanted the ground to swallow her up. It was Theo who spoke in his stead: "Er... Hermione... Are you –"  
"It's fine," Malfoy interrupted suddenly, "Theo, it's fine. You go on. I'll meet you there."

With an uncertain, worried glance between the two, Theo nodded... but made no move to actually go on. Luna had to take his hand and drag him away; and even then, he kept looking over his shoulder...

  
"Well, Granger. What is it?"  
She jumped and looked up at Malfoy, now standing much closer. He was so tall, and having him stare down at her with those cold grey eyes of his stole away the last of her nerve.  
"Um," she stammered.  
" _Well?_ " he demanded. His hair was still uncharacteristically unkempt, hanging in locks over his brow.  
"Okay," she started awkwardly, "Look. I just... I wanted to apolo–"  
"No."  
"Excuse me?"  
"I said no, Granger. Don't fucking apologise."  
"Why on earth not?" Had she been nervous? All she felt now was affronted and annoyed.  
"I don't want to hear it."  
"That's not – why are you –"  
"Now if that's all..." he said gruffly, and made to turn away.  
"That is _not_ all!" she hissed. She grabbed the sleeve of his robe and pulled him back to face her.  
He glared with incredulous antagonism, "What the hell –"  
" _Why won't you let me say it?_ " He simply continued to glare. "Do you think you'll have to apologise too? Oh, don't worry, I don't expect any repentance from _you_ for _your_ behaviour in the past –"  
"Shut up. Neither of us is going to apologise, alright? Nobody is going to _forgive_ anybody. I just hope, for Theo's sake, you can keep things civil from here on forth."  
" _Me?!_ " Hermione fumed, " _Me?_ Because, historically, Malfoy, _you're_ the one who's been a prat!"  
"And _you're_ the one who seems to love living in the past," he snapped.

They glowered at each other for five seconds. Five seconds that Hermione counted in her head – five seconds that allowed her to document the near-imperceptible way in which his left eyebrow twitched, the way his nostrils subtly flared. Five seconds after which his gaze left hers and travelled to the side of her neck where... where she knew her tiny mole resided. Almost subconsciously, she lifted her hand to touch the spot, and his eyes snapped back to hers.  
She sucked in a breath through her teeth. "I can be civil," she whispered.  
"Good," he whispered back curtly, "And thankfully, I doubt we'll have to interact all that much anyway."

Then suddenly, he spun around and left... forcing her to _watch_ him walk away. The sunlight on his hair was dazzling as he made his way past gravestones –  
_Gravestones._  
They were in a graveyard. She blinked up at the cornflower blue sky and shuddered. For a while, she had actually forgotten.

 

She rushed back over to Fred's tomb – now as blossoming and bright as he had been – and took her place beside Harry, Ginny, and Ron.

 

*

 

No sooner did they arrive back at the burrow, than George charged back indoors. They heard the slam of his door closing all the way out in the garden.

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, Hermione sat alone by the window in Ginny's room, once again watching the stars as sleep evaded her. Her eyes ached for repose, her head throbbed, but she remained one hundred percent alert. All the lights were doused; the temperature in the room was perfect. She felt like shit.  
There was a knock on the door and she jumped, without there being any reason to do so. It could only be a Weasley. Or Harry.

"Come in," she called out and stood up and faced the door. Ron shuffled in.  
"Hey," he mumbled, "Mind if I kip here tonight? Gin wants to be with Harry, and... you know..." he trailed off, making a face.  
"Um, sure," Hermione replied hesitatingly. She watched him in the delicate light of the moon, his pale face, his ragged hair, and he watched her back, intensely... too intensely...  
With the abruptness of a thunderclap, his head dropped and he started to cry. Hermione raced forward to throw her arms around him.  
"Hermione," he gasped, "Hermione – my – my – family – is broken. It's _ruined_. Fuck, Merlin, shit... _Fred._ "

For a long, long stretch of time, she held him and gently patted his back, all the while standing on the tips of her toes and fighting to hold in her own tears. He sobbed into her hair, crying for his brother, his family... but that did eventually peter out. And then the character of their embrace changed.  
Ron's hands drifted upwards, pulling her t-shirt up as they went. His head turned so that his lips brushed against her temple...

Hermione was a good three feet away from him in a flash.

He swayed as though in a daze, and blinked blearily at her. "Hermio – wha–?"  
She swallowed, and looked away. "I'm sorry, Ron. I'm sorry. I can't."  
"What are you talking about?" he demanded, "You can't? It's _us,_ Hermione – you and me –"  
From the corner of her eye, she saw him take a step towards her, his hand lifted... and so she backed away some more.  
"I'm _sorry,_ " she wailed, "I... I can't..."  
" _Hermione_. Look at me." She shook her head. "Look at me."  
She did, and wasn't he just the most wretched thing she'd ever seen? His brother was dead, he was a frayed, devastated mess, his eyes were full of anguish and he said, " _Please._ "  
"Ron, I ca–"  
"I'm in love with you," he declared, "I've been in love with you for years. But you know that. And you... you're in love with me, aren't you? This... us... it's meant to happen. Innit, Hermione?"

His brow creased with sincerity, his sad, cobalt-in-the-moonlight eyes pleaded with her. She bit her lip and just... shook her head. Again. And he recoiled at the rejection. Again.  
"You – you – are in love with me, aren't you."  
She couldn't speak.  
"Hermione. Say it. Say you love me."  
"I can't," she said in the smallest voice she'd ever used.  
" _What_."

His expression sucked all the air out of the room, out of her lungs, and left the world in a crushing vacuum. Hurt, fury, and disenchantment claimed his face, all at once. And he stood there long enough for its image to be imprinted onto her brain before storming out of the room.

* * *

 


	43. Forty-Three

 

Not surprisingly, Hermione didn't sleep that night either.

Ron left, and she stood frozen in the moonlit room for eons. Would misery and heartache ever end? Would she _ever_ feel anything but complete devastation?  
Devastation: That's what every aspect of Ron had conveyed. What if she had let him kiss her and touch her? She could have given him a moment of relief, much like she had taken from Pete the year before. Oh, but it could never have been as clinical as that with Ron.

She felt too horrified to cry... and it wasn't her _right_ to cry. She had hurt him... hurt him so badly.

Like an iron-limbed automaton, she returned to her spot by the window and curled up with her knees pressed against her chest. There she sat till the moon faded into a gradually lightening sky.

At dawn, a man and his dog scampered across a distant field. Sometime later, a little bird landed on the window ledge and shook the dew off its brown wings.  
Mrs. Weasley came out to feed the chickens. An aeroplane streaked across the sky.

 

Then the door to Ginny's room flew open, and Harry barged in.  
"What the hell happened, Hermione?" he demanded.  
Hermione didn't move from her corner, and she merely sighed, looking away from her agitated friend and back out the window. "Don't. Please."  
"Don't _what_?!" Harry railed, "Ron woke Gin and me up in a towering rage a while back, muttering something about you being a... treacherous bint, and threw us out of his room. Now he's locked himself in there and won't come out. So tell me! What happened?"  
"Harry... please."  
"Hermione... he was fucking _crying_."  
She squeezed her eyes shut and wrestled with her squirming insides. "He told me he's in love with me," she whispered.  
Harry was quiet for so long that she was forced to look over to check if he was still there. And he was – wild-haired and wearing a puzzled expression. "O...kay?" he said uncomfortably, "That's... good, right? It's what you've wanted to hear for a long time. How did it get all bollixed up, then?"  
"Harry..." she muttered, and looked away again.  
"You didn't..." he sputtered incredulously, "You... You didn't _turn him down_ , did you?" Her lack of response said it all. She felt his anger and disbelief bleed into the air and envelop her. "You did?! Hermione, what the fu– _Why?!_ "  
"I don't feel that way about him."  
"Since when?" he raged, "I've watched you two for _years_ , dancing around each other, fighting, being jealous and petty, making MY life bloody difficult... and when he finally decides to man up, you suddenly don't feel that way about him? That makes no sense!"  
"It wasn't sudden," she replied thickly, ( _don't you dare cry._ )  
"Since when, then?"  
"A while." And that was all she was willing to say.  
"Fuck's sake," Harry growled, "How could you _do_ that to him? He was in a fucking state... there was no reason to stomp all over is heart –"  
"Do you think I wanted to do that?" Hermione hissed, jumping to her feet and rounding on him, "Do you really believe I _wanted_ to hurt him? What would you have had me do?"  
"You could have given him a chance! You could have made him feel a little less shitty!"  
"How long? How long should I have kept up a charade before it would've been okay to break his heart?"  
Harry huffed, pulling an agitated hand through his hair. "It wouldn't have to be a bloody charade. He's mad for you. You should've seen what the horcrux showed him before he destroyed it. It was basically all about _you._ And you wanted him too, once... maybe if you'd given him a chance, you'd have..." He trailed off.  
"I'd have what?" Hermione spat with barely contained despair; her legs were shaking with the effort it took to keep standing, "I'd have come around? Maybe decided, _hey alright, why not?_ When have you known me to be that fickle, Harry? When have you known me to make unconsidered decisions? Do you think I just went on a random whim when I realised I don't love Ron that way?"  
"No..." he sighed tiredly, "Of course not..."  
"Then _what_ , Harry? What, what, what? We're so wrong for each other – and you know that. You _know_ that. It could've been so much uglier... and giving in would have been unfair... to him... to me... I know he hates me now... and he'll probably not stop hating me... _I_ hate me, Harry... I... I..."

 

She was hyperventilating, and Harry was staring at her in wide-eyed horror. She spun away from him once more, striding back to the window to press her forehead against the sun-warmed glass. Her vision was foggy – so she had succumbed to tears after all.  
She heard his feet shuffling, and assumed he was leaving... until she felt two hands settle on her shoulders. Harry rested his chin on the top of her head and murmured, "Sorry. I just really wanted something good to happen, you know?"  
Hermione blinked until the moisture collected in her eyes had cleared. When she looked out of the window again, she saw Ginny on a broom, circling the orchard at breakneck speed.

 

* * *

 

_Reality demands_  
_that we also mention this:_  
 _Life goes on_.

Hermione had maintained her policy of not reading the _Prophet_ ever since Harry's press conference at the Ministry. The only reason she had some idea of the news was because Mr. Weasley would return from work every evening, laden with information. He'd temporarily been assigned the role of scouring through all the documents of the past year, picking out individuals who'd been faithful to Voldemort's regime.  
Thanks to him, Hermione knew about the hundreds who'd been imperiused, the hundreds who'd been persecuted and were now being given reparations. She knew that all dementors had been rounded up and locked away in the lowest rung of cells in Azkaban; the prison was now guarded by Aurors. She knew about the flurry of fast-track trials – as many as ten a day – being conducted by the Wizengamot. Death Eaters, corrupt officials, snatchers, et al were being jailed for life. Hermione heard about Yaxley, Umbridge, the Carrows, Dolohov, Nott Sr., Greyback... all being locked up for good.

On the evening of the sixth day after the war, Mr. Weasley emerged from the fireplace and threw a newspaper on the kitchen table. Then he walked purposefully towards the kitchen cabinet and began pulling out glasses.  
The rest of the occupants of the room – all the Weasleys (sans George,) Lee Jordan, (who was the only person George allowed into his room,) Harry, and Hermione – gathered around the table. The headline read: _Augustus Rookwood, Ex-Unspeakable and known Death Eater, sentenced to life imprisonment._  
Mrs. Weasley let out a keening wail and fell into the nearest chair. Fleur promptly put an arm around her. Everybody else was frozen... with relief? With bitterness? With a feeling of futility? Staggered by the shocking hollowness of retribution?

Mr. Weasley handed them a tumbler full of firewhiskey each.

 

* * *

 

 

Day seven saw them all congregated at Andromeda Tonks' back garden, dressed once again in sober black dress robes. Once again, the pulsating bloom of summer mocked the occasion; the garden was full of poppies and peonies.

Under the shade of a lush chestnut tree were three caskets.

Andromeda was a statue before them. She held a bundle of blankets, housing the tiny, sleeping form of Teddy Lupin pressed against her bosom. Her face was the epitome of grace and composure; she had Bellatrix's features, it was true, but instead of flashing ruthless insanity, they exuded constraint and self-control. It was heartbreaking to behold.  
As a complete contrast, to her right was Professor Sprout: Dishevelled, broken, and sobbing miserably into a soiled handkerchief.

 _"_ _I'm a proud Hufflepuff, I am," said Tonks with a brilliant grin, "It's the best damn house. You know, in my fifth year, I sat the whole lot – first year to seventh year – down in the common room and taught them 'Yellow Submarine.' Merlin, how it stuck! It became our anthem... Drove Sprout up the wall, it did!"_

To Andromeda's left was Malfoy, and his demeanour was similar to his aunt's. His jaw and fists were clenched, his eyes were lowered. Theo stood next to him, correspondingly sombre, and his arm was drawn around Luna, who was crying softly. Even Xenophilius had made it this time. In a bright blue wheel chair with a healer in tow, he was alarmingly skeletal. His once puffy hair had wilted.  
The Weasleys all stood together in a cluster, watching Andromeda with profound understanding on their faces. All, except George, that is. Mrs. Weasley had stood outside his door for hours, begging him to come out, to no avail. A lot of the usual suspects where there – Kingsley along with a small army of Aurors, (all friends of Tonks, most probably,) Hagrid, McGonagall, Flitwick, Hestia, and... Honestly, _etcetera._

 _"_ _Wotcher," the pink haired woman said with a small wave, "I'm Tonks. Don't listen to what anybody else says in regard to my name, yeah? Nice to meet you."_

Nearest to Lupin's casket slouched Harry, mourning the loss of yet another father-figure.

_"You're the cleverest witch of your age I've ever met, Hermione."  
"I'm not. If I'd been a bit cleverer, I'd have told everyone what you are!" _

Here's what Remus Lupin was: One of the bravest people she'd ever known. Brave for not letting his condition beat him down, brave for carrying on even after everyone he cared for died, brave for surviving the death of the man he loved, brave for being endlessly kind rather than bitter, brave for putting away all his self-doubt and misgivings so that he may be a good father to his son.

The son who will never know him. God, it was all so miserable.

Only moments after Kingsley had entombed the caskets in soft grey marble, Teddy Lupin woke up. His loud, gurgling wails broke through the heavy poignancy around them. Immediately, Andromeda turned around and walked back into her house, head bent as she cooed and shushed at the bundle in her arms. Malfoy and Mrs. Weasley went after her.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione attended three funerals on day eight.

First, there was Diggle's, held in a small graveyard somewhere in Somerset. His wife was as tall as he had been short; very stork-like. They laid him to rest just a few minutes after sunrise, and his tomb of pure white turned gold as the early rays of morning struck it.

Just four hours afterwards, Hermione stood between Harry and Dean in a muggle cemetery, attending the last rites of Colin Creevey. She barely saw anything beyond Dennis, so small and lost, clinging to his mother's side. Almost the entire Gryffindor house had turned up, as well as many people from other houses, in Colin's year.  
Before his coffin was lowered into the ground, Neville and Seamus covered it with a blazing red Gryffindor banner.

Later, just before five o'clock, she was sitting outside a small mausoleum attached to a reasonable-sized estate. It was rather fitting, she thought, that the evening sky was lavender. There was a speech being made, about a beautiful girl with a beautiful soul, but all Hermione could think of was the girl who'd called her boring, stuck-up, swotty, ugly...  
_Stop it_.  
Lavender's mother, (an older, more voluptuous version of her daughter,) and father, (a tall, swarthy man with thinning hair,) were beside themselves. Parvati and Padma were three seats away, and it was like they'd been transported, undisturbed from when she'd seen them in the Great Hall a week ago.

There was another speech being made, about a brave, strong-willed girl with a heart of gold... and it was true. Ultimately, that's who Lavender Brown proved to be.

Her... _ugh_... body... wrapped up in pale pink silk was carried inside the mausoleum by her weeping father. The congregation stood as that happened. Hermione couldn't help but notice Ron – his shoulders slumped and his eyes full of tears – and she went up to him and took his hand.  
He let her hold onto it... for all of five minutes... until the ceremony came to an end, and he yanked his hand away and stormed off.

 

*

 

At night she curled up under a thin linen sheet and _Moon River_ played in her head in a beautiful, incessant loop. In the next bed lay a disgruntled Ginny who blamed her for not being able to spend the night with Harry anymore.

_Two drifters off to see the world  
There's such a crazy world to see _

_The crazy world was a flatland, and the ground was a carpet of clayey, ochre sand, sparingly shooting out short stalks of brittle, yellow grass. Barren trees with twisting branches sprung up here and there. The air shimmered and rippled with heat._

_...Chasing after our rainbow's end..._

_The horizon line was defined by a purple, mountainous stripe. In the middle-ground sat the dilapidated ruins of the Tower of Babel, out of which a row of... crows? Dementors?... flew out and soared in a sweeping arch above her head._  
The sky was pale blue. Cloudless. Glistening.  
Hermione turned as she followed their flight...

 _...My dream maker_  
Heartbreaker  
Wherever you're going I'm going the same...

_She ran through the desert forever, staring at the dark flying shapes, half-blinded by the dazzling sky._

_...What I see, who I become_  
We're all chasing after our end  
Chasing after our ends...

 _She stumbled, and she screamed as she fell. The hot sand scalded her. With a gasp she sat up to see what she had tripped over... and it was a skull, made of lapis lazuli._  
T _hen one of the black shapes in the sky swooped towards her... closer... closer... and it was Bellatrix, and she pounced on her, loomed over her... her deranged face filled Hermione's vision..._  
 _"HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY VAULT," Bellatrix shrieked._  
 _"No – please –" Hermione gasped._  
 _Suddenly, all the black flying things closed in... turned orange... blazing... they were ruthless flames of a raging fiendfire..._  
"NO!"

She was in Ginny's room, sitting up in her bed. Panting. Sweating. Shivering. She looked about her in a terrorised daze.  
In the dark room, Ginny's eyes were black as they looked at her, before turning their blank gaze to the ceiling.

 

* * *

 

 

On the morning of day nine, Hermione sat at the Weasley kitchen table shelling peas. She lost herself in the mindless mundanity of the task, paying no mind to Ginny as she clumped out into the garden with her broom, nor to Harry, who followed with one of his own.  
_Plop-plop-plop_ , the peas spilled out of their pods into the bowl before her.

But she couldn't ignore it when loud shouts broke out from somewhere above. She didn't even get a chance to stand before _thump, thud, bang,_ a bundle of bodies plodded down the stairs.

"NO! _NO!_ " Mrs Weasley was half-sobbing, half-yelling, "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! He has to talk to me! HE HAS TO!"  
"Mum..." Charlie implored. His arms were locked around her, trying to keep her from charging back up the stairs.  
"NO!" Mrs. Weasley shrieked, "He has to come out! He has to talk to me! GEORGE! GEORGE! I AM YOUR MOTHER AND YOU _WILL_ LISTEN TO ME!"  
"Mum, _please_ , calm down..."  
Ron and Percy had come down to the kitchen too, gazing plaintively at their mother.  
"He was my son! Fred was my boy and I lost him! I lost one boy and I shan't lose another! GEORGE! YOU HEAR ME – _GEORGE!_ COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!"  
" _Mum,_ " Percy said forcefully. He went to stand in front of her and put both his hands on her shoulders. "Mum. Enough. Please, mum."  
"He's... George... I... _Oh, Freddy..._ "  
With that, Mrs. Weasley broke down, teetering forward into Percy's arms. He led her into the sitting room, saying, "Shhh, it'll be okay..."  
"No... No... It won't..."

 

When they had gone, Charlie breathed out heavily. He dug into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes and shuffled out into the garden. The door closed behind him with a loud _slam_ , and it left Hermione alone in the kitchen with Ron.

"Enjoyed the show?" he sneered.  
Hermione stared at him with wide eyes and a quivering chin.  
"Must be fun for you, eh, watching the destruction from the outside? Because perfect Hermione Granger hasn't lost a thing. Even the fucking war couldn't touch you. Perfect, _perfect._ You're alive, your fucking Slytherin chums are alive, you'll go off and get your parents back... everything's sodding _dandy_ in the life of Hermione Granger."  
"Ron –" she whispered piteously.  
"We lost everything... everything. And you lost nothing. Not that you care, right? I saw you, at Fred's funeral... chatting up fucking Malfoy."  
"Ron," she choked, "Ron, I wasn't –"  
"Yes. You. Were. Just... get _out_ of here. Bloody hell, _why_ are you here? Why the bleeding shite are you here? Just get the –"

"Shut up, Ron. Shut up _now._ "  
Both Hermione and Ron jumped and looked towards the door. Unbeknown to them, Harry and Ginny had returned, and stood framed by the doorway wearing equally horrified expressions.  
" _What_ ," Ron spat poisonously, "I'm just speaking the truth. She," he pointed viciously at Hermione, "Is living off our generosity, having a merry fucking time slagging around with Slytherin cunts –"  
"Do NOT talk about her like that," Ginny roared, pulling her wand out. But Harry with his seeker-reflexes, caught her wrist before she could inflict any damage. "Get off me, Harry!"  
"Er... Let's all... please calm down, yeah?" Harry whispered with desperation.  
"THE FUCK I WILL –" Ginny thundered.  
"Oh, right," Ron fumed, "One slag will defend another, yeah?"  
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Ginny screamed, the same time as Harry growled, "Watch it, Ron..."

 

"Are you all quite insane?"  
And it was Percy this time, speaking from the door that led to the living room. He looked from Ron's purple face to Hermione's bloodless one... from Harry restraining Ginny, to Ginny trying to launch herself at Ron.  
"Our mother," he gritted out through clenched teeth, "Is in the next room, _terribly_ upset. Stop this ridiculous, childish nonsense at once. Ron, get out."  
" _Excuse me, wha–_ "  
"Get out. Walk your bloody temper off. Come back when you can speak civilly again."  
"You're not the boss –"  
"I swear to Godric, Ron, I _will_ hex you if you don't leave right now." And surprisingly, albeit with a furious glare, Ron followed the command of the brother he claimed to not respect at all. "Ginny," Percy continued after Ron had flounced away, "Go to your room," and with an angry hiss, she acquiesced too.

Percy levelled a profoundly unimpressed look on Harry and Hermione before leaving. The awful ringing silence he left behind was thicker than slime. Just to break through it, Hermione scraped back her chair loudly as she got to her feet.  
_Not wanted, not wanted, not wanted._ Had Ron voiced the sentiments of the entire Weasley clan? She'd never felt like such a sick parasite before... _Not wanted._

"Hermione..." Harry whispered uncertainly.  
She shook her head at him and turned away. With an inconspicuous sniff, she went over to the pantry and brought out a box of lemon balm tea leaves.  
"I'm going to make some tea for Mrs. Weasley. Would you like a cup?"  
"Er... sure..." Harry muttered.  
Hermione put the kettle on.

 

*

 

When Ron got back, the sun had set and everybody was gathered in the sitting room, co-existing in silence. Wordlessly, he ensconced himself in an armchair by a window, which he stared moodily out of.  
Ginny glowered at him. She and Hermione were sitting on the floor by Mrs. Weasley's feet, helping her untangle a mountain of wool. They were doing it without magic, painstakingly, as again, the absorption that such a tedious task provided was truly welcome.

They heard the floo go off in the kitchen, and Mr. Weasley's voice was heard calling out: "Molly? Percy?"  
"In here, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley called back.

He wasn't alone. He walked primly into the room, and close after him entered Kingsley, as regal as ever in faun coloured robes and carrying a dragonhide briefcase.  
"Oooh," Mrs. Weasley squeaked, "Kingsley! Er – Minister, Er –"  
Kingsley rolled his eyes, "We've been over this, Molly. I'm still the same person... the person who rather loves your gooseberry pie..."  
"Of course, of course," she muttered, "Do sit down..."

"So what brings you here?" Mrs. Weasley asked as she handed him a hefty slice of pie.  
"A couple of things," he smiled, "And thank you so much for this. You've salvaged a really rotten day." He helped himself to a forkful and closed his eyes blissfully. "Well, let's get down to it, I suppose. First, Percy."  
The man in question started and blinked at Kingsley through his horn-rimmed glasses. "Me, Minister?"  
"Yes. I'm sure Arthur's been telling you how hectic things are getting in the Ministry. It's pure madness on most days. We're woefully understaffed... so many have been sacked, imprisoned, or are currently receiving treatment at Mungo's. We're in desperate need for efficient, organised, steadfast workers..."  
"Are you –" Percy stammered, "Are you saying –"  
"Come back to work, Percy. I would like to offer you your old job again: I could really use a good senior assistant."  
"I don't know what to say," Percy replied thickly, "I... I've made mistakes, Minister... bad choices..."  
"Who hasn't?" said Kingsley with a shrug, "I know you're a hard worker. So what will it be? Can I expect you in my office bright and early tomorrow morning?"  
Percy swallowed, and needlessly straightened his glasses. "Yes. Absolutely."  
"Wonderful," Kingsley exclaimed. He finished up the last of his pie, and then he set the empty plate on the centre table. "I would like to talk to Harry, Hermione, and Ron privately now, please."

 

The others rose and exited the room promptly, (Ginny kept looking suspiciously over her shoulder,) and the remaining three all seated themselves on the sofa in front of Kingsley.

First, he looked at Harry: "As the chief representative of the British Ministry of Magic, I would like to inform you that the government wishes to award you an Order of Merlin, First Class –"  
"No," said Harry, promptly.  
Kingsley smirked, "Perhaps you will prefer my suggestion? A collective award, for all those who fought –"  
"Yes," said Harry without delay.  
"All right," Kingsley was most amused, "There is a small ceremony planned for the fifteenth... if you all could please make an appearance..." He then popped open his briefcase and turned to Hermione and said, "These are for you." He held out a pillbox hat and a wooden spatula. "The hat will take you to the Ministry of Magic head office in Melbourne on the sixteenth of May at nine PM sharp. This one... the spatula... will bring you back here. The date and time is up to you; a simple _expurgo_ will activate the portkey."  
Hermione set the objects on her lap with reverence. "Thank you."  
Kingsley waved away her thanks and proceeded to hand them a crisp white envelope each. The letter inside read:

 

_  
SUMMONS TO WITNESS AT THE TRIALS OF LUCIUS MALFOY AND NARCISSA MALFOY_

_To,  
Hermione Jean Granger,_

_You are required to attend to give evidence in court at the hearing of this proceeding on Wednesday, the 13_ _th_ _of May, 1998, at The Ministry of Magic, London, at 11 am sharp, and are to remain until your attendance is no longer required._

_Issued by (Interim) Chief Warlock  
Tiberius Ogden _

 

  
"What d'you need us for?" Ron grunted, "Lock them up."  
Both Hermione and Harry opened their mouths to speak, but were cut off by Kingsley.  
"It isn't that easy, Ron," he said, suddenly seeming tired.  
"Because of their twatty son's deal with Lupin, yeah?"  
"Well, yes. Which is why I need you to be at the ministry at nine – there's going to be a closed... trial... of sorts for Draco. I've tried my best to shut it down, but the Wizengamot insists, and I don't have the power to overrule them. It'll just be Ogden, two other members, and I... and a few witnesses... it's all ridiculous, of course... as far as I'm concerned, Draco Malfoy does not deserve punishment of any sort."  
Ron scoffed, "And all the shit he pulled in sixth year?"  
"Under duress, you mean?" Kingsley asked with a frown, "His actions after are what I'm concerned with. I have spoken to Andromeda Tonks, Neville, Seamus, Bill, Theodore, and Luna... they've all agreed to speak in his favour. Now if the three of you would agree –"  
"Yes," Hermione said with an immediacy that surprised her. Harry nodded, and Ron... looked away.  
"Ron?" Kingsley prompted.

"Fine," he muttered, not meeting the Minister's eye, "He... helped protect my family... so I suppose. Just this once. Then we're even, and I can hate the bastard with a clear conscience."  
Harry laughed; Kingsley's lips twitched.  
"As for the trials of Lucius and Narcissa –"  
"She lied to Voldemort... it's what kept me alive..." Harry mumbled.  
"Yes," Kingsley averred, "Are you willing to testify on her behalf?"  
"Yeah."  
"Well then. With that, and the conditions of Draco's deal, I have no doubt that she'll escape Azkaban. And Lucius –"  
"You can't be serious," Ron blurted.  
"Oh, he's going to jail. For a good long time," said Kingsley with promise, "Just, unfortunately, not for life." He held up his hand as Ron made to protest again. "Not ideal... I know. But again, it's what Remus promised Draco, and I _am_ going to honour his promise for him."

 

Obviously, none of them could object to that. They remained lost in their own musings for some time, until Kingsley clapped and rubbed is palms together and said, "There's one more thing – oh, don't look so worried – these are happier tidings! I had gone to Hogwarts yesterday to see how the repair work is coming along, and I'm please to tell you... it's nearly complete; nearly restored to its former glory. We'd called in a team from France to help with the architectural restructuring, and –"  
"Why is it," Hermione interrupted, fighting to keep a tremor out of her voice, "That it was so easy to get foreign aid now, and not during the actual war?"  
Kingsley sighed and turned his eyes heavenwards. "We have very strict non-interventional policies in place, Hermione. It's difficult enough to maintain the Statute of Secrecy during a time of conflict, domestically, without it becoming an international –"  
"But surely the rest of the magical world knew that Voldemort would not be satisfied with taking over merely Britain!" Hermione exclaimed incredulously, "He was out for world domination – _everybody's_ lives were at stake!"  
"There are laws, Hermione, that are –"  
"Preposterous!"  
"...Maybe so..." suddenly he smiled, "This is, actually, a good preamble for what I was about to say – Hogwarts is almost ready to be reopened, and you will be getting your letters soon – Minerva wants to give the students in your batch a chance to redo their final year. However, I have an alternative proposition for you: Come work for the Ministry. As I said to Percy, we're short-staffed, and you three are some of the finest young people I know. Pick your department – Harry, I know you've always wanted to be an Auror... and you, Ron. Hermione the International Magical Office of Law will be honoured to have you."

She gaped at him with something akin to panic swirling in her gut.  
The war was over, and he was offering a fresh start, a new life, a complete change of pace. "But... what about our N.E.W.T.s?" she spluttered. Her heart was _thudding_ so disturbingly.  
Kingsley threw back his head and guffawed. "Completely unnecessary, Hermione. I think you've rather proved yourselves already... you don't need grades, or a piece of parchment to validate your abilities! ...So? Internships and training will commence on the first of August."  
"I'm in," Harry said with a short, sure nod.  
Ron, who'd gone back to scowling out of the window, shrugged. "Sure. Whatever."

A fresh start, a new life, a complete change of pace...  
No.  
She wasn't ready. She wasn't... complete. Hermione Granger did not skip steps.  
"I'm sorry, Kingsley," she said, "I will have to decline. I want to go back to Hogwarts, I want to complete my education. I think –"  
She broke off to stare at Harry – he was chuckling. "Kingsley, she wouldn't be Hermione if she didn't jump at the chance to go back to school. I'm sure she's been looking forward to sitting for her N.E.W.T.s since our first day at Hogwarts."  
"Not the first," Hermione mumbled, giving Harry the first genuine smile she'd indulged in in a long, long time.  
"No?" he asked her fondly.  
"Before. Since I'd read about them in _Hogwarts: A History._ "  
He grinned, and it was full of so much affection that she wanted to hug him.

  
Kingsley, too, was grinning as he stood up. "Fair enough, Hermione. But remember, there will always be an opening for you at the Ministry." He smoothened down his robes and picked up his briefcase. "I must be going now... thank you for your time. I'll see you tomorrow."  
He left, and the reminder of what the next day was to bring fell like a bucket of ice cold water on Hermione's cheery mood.

 

* * *

 

 

Day ten: The Ministry of Magic atrium.

Hermione's sensible shoes clicked in tandem with Harry, Ron, and Percy's footsteps as they marched towards the lifts. Out of habit, Hermione looked at her wrist to check for the time – she still wore her broken watch, stuck at twelve-forty AM. Her watch was still stuck on the night of the final battle.

As the lift descended, Hermione was once again thrown back to her morning as Mafalda, standing stricken behind Umbridge. The feeling got stronger and stronger as they walked down the Department of Mysteries corridor, down the flight of stairs leading to the courtrooms...

"Here," said Percy after leading them to a large, dark door, "Courtroom six."  
They were, evidently, the last to arrive. The highest bench was already occupied by Kingsley (who smiled encouragingly at them,) Ogden, (who also smiled), and two witches in plum coloured robes – one curious, one sneering. Percy went to sit by Kingsley, parchment and quill in hand, leaving Hermione, Harry, and Ron to take a seat on the benches that lined the sides of the room.  
There sat Andromeda, expressionless, and Neville, in expensive silk dress robes. Seamus, with his face completely healed gave them a little wave. Luna smiled. Bill nodded.  
Hermione sat down beside Theo, but he wouldn't look at her. He was sitting absolutely still, staring at the straight-backed wooden chair in the middle of the room as he chewed at his tongue; a sure sign of internal chaos. He twitched oddly when the door opened, and Malfoy walked in, flanked by two Aurors.  
Hermione watched him closely, trying to gauge something out of the cold aloofness of his demeanour... Just as he lowered himself into the chair, he said something to his escorts, and they laughed, one even lightly thumped his back good naturedly.

 

Ogden cleared his throat. "Closed hearing to determine the culpability of Draco Lucius Malfoy in his role as a Death Eater under the service of Tom Marvolo Riddle, otherwise known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.  
"Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, Tiberius Ogden, Chief Warlock, Edwina Lumbard, senior member, Wizengamot..."

Ogden droned on, naming everybody in the room. Hermione rolled her shoulders, overcome with a need to fidget. She had a lump in her throat.

"...Court Scribe: Percy Weasley..."

Luna had clasped Theo's hand. Seamus was drawing invisible spirals on the floor with his shoe. Hermione bit her lips between her teeth.  
She looked at Malfoy again; his arms rested along the slim arms of his chair, and his fingers were drumming against the edges intermittently, as though tapping against phantom piano keys. And when had he decided to stop combing back his hair, she wondered inanely. Was his spine so taught with fear, or pride? Hang it all, she was nervous _for_ Draco Malfoy.

"...Neville Longbottom, and Seamus Finnigan.  
"The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did freely and willingly join the ranks of the followers of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, those that called themselves the Death Eaters," (Malfoy's hands curled into fists,) "That he did invite He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to take sanctuary in his home," (Malfoy's calm facade dropped; he glowered at Ogden,) "That he did, under the orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, spend the majority of his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry securing a way to introduce Death Eaters into the castle. That he did, through his actions, cause near-fatal accidents to befall his fellow students, Ronald Weasley and Katie Bell," (Malfoy's lip curled,) "That he did, ultimately , succeed in completing his mission on the thirtieth of June, nineteen-ninety-seven, which resulted in a battle that injured many. That he did, disarm a weakened and sickly Albus Dumbledore, and threaten to take his life. That he did subsequently, live as a fugitive from justice. That he did, continue to serve He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named loyally and –"  
" _Not true,_ " Malfoy cut in loudly.  
"You will be given a chance to speak later, Mr. Malfoy!" the sneering witch – Edwina – shouted.  
"Er..." Ogden stammered uncomfortably, "Right then. Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, deny the previously stated charges?"  
"I deny their premise," Malfoy replied, slow and sharp, "I was neither free nor willing when I was being marked. Had I refused, my parents and I would have been killed. " Suddenly, the pace of his speech trebled, "The Dark Lord, mind you, doesn't _ask._ I wasn't _offered_ the mark, and I didn't _invite_ him into my home –" he paused to laugh bitterly, "–This is such bullshit. Did you hear yourself prattle? What do you think, we had the Dark Lord over for tea, and he was completely delightful, offered to give me a sweet little tattoo, and we enjoyed his company so much that we simply _had_ to have him stay on?"  
"Your insolence is highly inappropriate, Mr. Malfoy!" Edwina snapped. (Hermione heard Theo let out a quiet groan.)  
Ogden, however, looked thoroughly chastise as he fretfully shuffled his papers around. The other witch – Zoya something – seemed stricken.  
Malfoy wasn't done: "And just so you know, I _never_ served the Dark Lord out of loyalty. Never. And if you've seen Remus' memories, which I'm sure you have, you'll know that I tried to get out of it _multiple times..._ But apparently Dumbledore had big plans that couldn't be derailed, right?"  
"Look, Draco," Kingsley began tiredly.  
"What is this, _Minister_?" Malfoy spat, "I was promised I wouldn't have to deal with any of this. I answered all of Remus' questions, under the influence of Veritaserum! We had a deal! We had a deal, and you broke it! You've taken my mother into custody, you're treating me like a criminal... I've helped, spied, and fought for _your_ side..."  
"Hear, hear!" Neville and Seamus chorused.  
"You tell 'em, Ferret boy," Seamus added.  
Sneery Edwina was beside herself, "Order! Order in the court!"

Like true Gryffindors, Neville and Seamus took their time settling down, and Malfoy, the inscrutable prat, was _smirking_ at them. Hermione thought Theo might chew his tongue right off.  
Eventually, after calm had been restored, Kingsley stood up and turned to the other three at his bench. "I'm afraid," he said authoritatively, "This farce of a trial has gone on for too long. You have seen Remus Lupin's memories, and I, along with numerous members of the Order have told you about the role Mr. Malfoy has played in the war. Now if you insist on hearing the testimonies of these witnesses, so be it, but I can assure you that if you don't vote in this young man's favour, I will make it my personal mission to keep appealing on his behalf until the verdict is overturned."  
"This is intimidation!" Edwina shrieked.  
"This is honouring an agreement!"  
"Please, _please_ calm yourselves," poor old Ogden implored, "Let's put it to a vote, shall we? All in favour of dismissal...?" He raised his hand, and so did Zoya Something. "All right. Case dismissed." He jumped to his feet. "We have another trial to get to in an hour, and I would truly appreciate some refreshments before that. Minister?"

 

A slightly dazed Kingsley, a ludicrously jaunty Ogden along with Sweet and Sneery left the courtroom. That's when Seamus punched his fist into the air, Luna and Bill applauded, and Theo leapt off the bench. Malfoy had hardly gotten to his feet when Theo reached him and whacked him on the shoulder.  
"What the fu–"  
"You Merlin be damned _moron._ Couldn't you control yourself for ten fucking minutes?"  
"What are you talking about? Everything turned out just fine?" Malfoy scowled.  
" _But what if it hadn't_?"

He didn't get a chance to answer. A bailiff of some sort in light purple robes came to inform him that his parents were in a holding room and wished to see him. He rushed off, and Theo rushed off. Ron whispered something to Harry and hurried away as well. Andromeda muttered a hoarse, "I must get back to my grandson," and left.

 

Hermione, Harry, and Luna lingered in the empty courtroom for a while after Neville, Seamus, and Bill had bid them farewell.  
"Well, that was something," Harry quipped.  
Hermione nodded dumbly.  
"Theo was so worried," Luna said, "But I'd told him they couldn't possibly put Draco in Azkaban. They'd have saved themselves so much trouble if they'd bother to look at his aura."  
As they sauntered out into the stone corridor, Hermione asked Harry, "Where did Ron go?"  
"To see Reg Cattermole," he replied, peering at her from the corner of his eye, "He wants to apologise for getting his family into trouble."

While waiting for the next trial to begin, Hermione pondered over the impossible complexity of human nature until she felt acutely, unbearably... uncomfortable.

 

*

 

The trials of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had lasted for an hour. They'd sat through the proceedings with stony expressions, speaking in monosyllables as much as possible. Narcissa Malfoy, though exponentially less polished than usual, managed to display some elegance. Thanks to Harry's testimony and her son's deal, she had been acquitted. Her husband was sentenced to a twenty year jail term. Hermione hadn't really looked at him much, not even while relating the events that had taken place at Malfoy Manor; the impression she was left with was long, limp, tangled white hair, hollow eyes, and sunken cheekbones.  
The moment it was over, Theo and Malfoy had taken Narcissa away, doing their best to shield her from reporters and photographers. She'd been deathly white.

 

Sat on the floor by the window once more, Hermione told Ginny all that had happened. The sun was setting and Ginny's head was ablaze.  
"Harry told me you've all been offered jobs at the ministry," she said, leaning back against her arms.  
"Yes..."  
"And he told me you've decided you'd rather go back to Hogwarts."  
Hermione looked out at the world, squinting against its radiance. "Harry said I wouldn't be me if I didn't go back."  
"Hah. No. You wouldn't. And... Hermione... I'm really glad that you are. I'm really glad that you'll be there."  
They smiled at each other.  
"And," Ginny continued, "I'm really glad that you're here right now. I know I've been a bit of a bitch –"  
"Ginny, no..."  
" _Definitely_ a bit of a bitch, but knowing you're there... it's meant a lot. So just... don't listen to what Ron says..."  
Hermione sighed, and she pressed a palm against her eyes. "He's so angry, Ginny."  
"Well, of course he is. It's how we Weasleys process hurt, you see. There was no way this could've gone well, Hermione. He'll heal."  
"But do you think he'll ever forgive me?" she asked in a small voice.  
"I don't know."

 

* * *

 

 

Eleven days after the war, she wandered deep into the orchard with her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ , trying to relive the wonder she'd felt as an eleven year old. She couldn't get beyond the chapter about the Great Hall; printed words described a lavish room with a spectacular seeing, and her mind showed her images of people bleeding and crying, of a line of dead bodies. Her mind showed her chaos and flashing lights, madness and desperation... and a large chunk of mortar falling upon an unsuspecting –

Hermione shut the book and pulled out Bellatrix's wand, balancing it on her open palm. She'd barely done any magic in the past eleven days. Two days later, she'd have to use _this wand_ to bring back her parents – this wand – this wand – _this_ wand. Her idea of penance was a silly one.

 

* * *

 

 

The man on stage was a complete sodding dunce.  
"...and though many lives were lost, the legacy of this war is the victory of good over evil, of light over dark, of love over hate..."  
A total prick. Hermione wanted to pull off her shoe and hurl it at him.

On the twelfth day, she was in a jam-packed auditorium in some corner of the Ministry, listening to a brain-dead hack wax poetic about the nightmare they'd lived through.

"...will be honoured for their sacrifice – their valour will live on through us. They fought a righteous battle for a glorious new world..."

There was no righteousness in war; no glory in battle. This man – this sap – knew nothing. He'd probably hidden away during the entire thing... He wouldn't have been talking like that if he'd seen what it had really been like.  
If he'd seen his friends fall to a pointless death. If he'd seen how a mother looked upon losing her child. If he'd felt the terror of facing death, a giant snake, a roaring blaze...  
If he'd been hurt, cursed, tortured...  
_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest_  
_To children ardent for some desperate glory,_  
 _The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est_  
 _Pro patria mori._

She looked to her left, to a row of frosty faces. Harry, Ron, Dean, and Seamus' eyes were glazed like they were back in Binns' classroom. Ginny looked like she was a second away from casting a Bat-Bogey hex. She looked to her right, to another row of frosty faces. Neville's eyes were narrowed; Luna was examining the speaker like _she_ thought he wasn't quite sane. And Theo and Malfoy... with identical expressions of disgust like they each had a whole lemon in their mouths...

Hermione began to giggle and it rang out like the tinkling of a dinner bell. On either side, the once frosty faces turned to stare at her with disbelief... before almost collectively thinking _oh what the hell_ , and joining right in with her.  
Her tiny little giggle had triggered a cloudburst of laughter, and Mr. Chest-Thumper stood up on his pedestal fuming in affronted silence.

 

*

 

"You nutter, I love you," Theo sniggered, plucking at her sleeve.

The "ceremony" had dissolved very quickly once the audience realised that they could laugh their way to the end. After days of fights and funerals it had felt so surreal to be lost in a sea of laughter...

"I'm a genius, aren't I?" Hermione grinned.

They were walking to the lifts in a double file of sorts: Harry and Ron preceded Hermione and Theo, who preceded Malfoy and Neville...  
Two rows of photographers flanked their path.

"Well, I've always said so."

" _Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter – this way – please! Mr. Malfoy! Ms. Lovegood! Neville Longbottom...!._ "

"By the way..."  
"Hm?"

 _"_ _Give us a smile, Ms. Granger, C'maaan! Mr. Potter, Mr Potter! Nott and Malfoy – Slytherin turncoats – over here, halloa!"_

"Are you sure you want to come with me tomorrow? I mean..."  
"Do you _want_ me to throw you to the hounds?"

" _Mr. Longbottom – pretend you're holding a sword! A picture of Potter, Weasley, and Granger... go on!"_

Then they were in a lift, shooting up towards the atrium.  
Their short journey to the Ministry fireplaces was much more peaceful. Luna skipped over to Theo's other side, "You saved the day, Hermione."  
"She really did," Theo seconded, putting an arm around each girls' shoulders.  
"You're leaving tomorrow aren't you?"  
"Yes, Luna."  
"I hope it goes well. If only daddy had been able to complete the diadem he'd been making, I'd have let you borrow it."  
"That's very kind of you..."

 

Even in the atrium, however, people kept pausing to gawk at them. When one pretty young thing stopped dead to blink at Theo, his walk turned into a strut. He unceremoniously pulled Hermione and Luna closer, offered the woman a rakish smile, crooning, "Well hello, there."  
In unison, Hermione and Luna threw Theo's arms off. Hermione daintily stepped closer to Luna and looped her arm around the other girl's.  
"Hey!" Theo cried in an injured tone.  
They ignored him, and picked up their pace.  
" _Oi!_ "  
Luna tittered.

 

* * *

 

 

Her beaded bag was packed, with all the photographs she'd taken from her parents' attic spread across the top. There was so much rubbish in there though... It still had more than half of Harry and Ron's clothes... a mini apothecary... The bloody portrait of Phineas Nigellus...  
She'd empty it out. Later.

From Ginny's room she climbed up one floor. Standing in the landing, she breathed in heavily, and then knocked on the door to the left.  
"George?" she called, "It's me Hermione."  
Not a voice, not a sound of acknowledgement.  
"I'm leaving tonight. Er... right now. I don't know for how long... and I – I – suppose I just wanted to say goodbye."  
Silence.  
"Um... take care of yourself."

She let herself linger for ten seconds.

 

The Weasleys and Harry were all in the kitchen, waiting to see her off. She got an exceptionally warm hug from Mrs. Weasley. "Best of luck," they murmured, "Keep in touch, let us know if you need anything." Ginny squeezed her hand.  
"Come," said Harry with a tilt of his head, "I'll walk you out."  
Ron was standing by the threshold, and as his eyes met hers, he offered her a gruff, "Take care now."  
"You too, Ron," Hermione whispered, because it didn't _sound_ like he was being sarcastic.

 

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets as they moved towards the closest hillock; Theo's silhouette could be seen standing on the very top. It was the very same one upon which she'd sat less than a year ago, after she'd altered mum and dad's memories.  
She'd come full circle in a way – a jagged circle with a blade like edge. She almost couldn't believe _she_ had been the one living through all she had lived through.

Circle: A continuous curved line, the points of which are always the same distance away from a fixed central point.  
Ha – she couldn't claim to have known such consistency. A circle is a _whole_... and wasn't it just so fucking poetic that on coming to the end of this circle of hers, she was feeling anything but?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a year old now. Omg.


	44. Forty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. And I'm sorry. Life happened, and this chapter was being extremely difficult. But here it is, and it's dedicated to all my wonderful Facebook friends and co-sprinters. 
> 
>  
> 
> A whole lot more was supposed to happen here but it got out of hand. So unfortunately, the second part of this chapter will be a while longer. I hope this isn't too disappointing after such a long wait.

“ _Welcome to the British Ministry Of Magic consulate, Victoria,_ ” said the robotic voice of a female announcer the moment Hermione and Theo appeared inside a small stone chamber. While Hermione was still reeling from the tumultuous after-effects of portkey-travel, a tall man with the most abundant head of sandy hair greeted them with a pleasant, “Good morning!”

His name, he revealed, was Timothy Preston, and would they _please_ feel free to let him know what he could do for them...?  
“Minister Shacklebolt told me to ensure that everything you need is taken care of.”  
“Right, thank you,” Hermione mumbled, blinking at the early morning sky visible through the high windows in the room; it had been night just seconds ago. “Could you tell us a cheap hotel or hostel we could stay at? Muggle preferably – I’d like to have access to a telepho –”  
“What she means,” Theo cut in, grabbing Hermione’s elbow, “Is that we’d like to know an _expensive, luxurious_ hotel to stay at. The best the city has to offer.”  
“Theo –”  
“Hush.”  
“Er, of course,” Preston replied, “I’ll look right into it.” 

 

* * *

 

Hermione stood in the living room of the Residence Suite of The Langham, thunderstruck, overwhelmed, and more than a little appalled. The opulence was otherworldly: Lavish carpets on hardwood floors, heavy drapes over enormous windows looking over the sprawling city outside, impossibly expensive looking furniture and fittings, vases full of orchids... and not to mention the fact that it had _two_ giant bedrooms, _two_ glorious bathrooms, a dining room, a kitchen...

“I can’t let you pay for this,” Hermione squeaked.  
“Pshaw,” Theo scoffed, throwing himself onto a fluffy looking sofa, “I just sold a mansion, got custody of my ancestral vault... Hermione, I’m _loaded._ I’m so rich, it’s disgusting. This is nothing, especially if you consider the Galleon to Australian Dollar exchange rate.”  
“Hmph.” Hermione squirmed. She clasped her hands together. She shuffled her feet.  
“Oh, sit down, would you?” Theo groaned, and when she scuffled over to a brocade armchair and perched on its edge, he rolled his eyes. “I’m going to explore the kitchen. You hungry?”  
Hermione shook her head.

She stared out the window, at the Yarra River shimmering a placid blue, and sighed. _Fragmen recreo,_ she thought over the buzzing white noise in her head. _Fragmen recreo, Fragmen recreo, Fragmen recreo.  
_

 

* * *

 

Theo had fallen asleep not long after he’d discovered the wonders of refrigeration, sliced meat, and Coke, (he’d kept his palm against the warm, humming side of the fridge, while staring at its cold interior like a worn traveller who’d just discovered Shangri-La,) and Hermione had slipped into one of the bedrooms and apparated away from the city centre to the beachside suburb of Mentone... specifically, to the alley next to a tidy, whitewashed building...

CHIPPER CHOPPERS: THE WILKINS’ DENTAL PRACTICE.

A sob was swaddled in a laugh and placed on the sigh that rushed out through her teeth – that _had to_ have been dad’s idea. She could imagine mum’s exasperation as she agreed to the name, hating it, but helpless against dad’s gleeful enthusiasm. _Chipper Choppers?! Are you insane, Robert?_

No... Not Robert. Wendell.

  
Hermione disillusioned herself and waited outside the tinted glass doors, pressed against the side of the wall. When a youngish man opened the door to go in, Hermione seized the chance to slip inside with him. Her hand brushed against the man’s jacket and she started – they both froze – but then he shook his head and moved on.  
Hermione found herself in a neat little waiting room, with a floor of polished white marble and cool, mint green walls. A frosted glass door that undoubtedly led to her parents’ offices graced one of those walls. There were potted palms at every corner, and rows of dark green chairs. There was a shelf stocked with all kinds of books, the customary magazine rack, a coffee table that held small bottles of water and a bowl of sugar-free mints. The reception was in one corner: a sturdy desk behind which sat a girl, (she looked no older than Hermione,) with bleached blond hair tied up in a high ponytail.  
“Good morning, Mr. Yang!” she greeted the man whom Hermione had entered with, “Lady Doc will be with ya in a moment. Have a seat!”

Hermione nestled herself beside the largest plant in the room. She watched the girl at the reception stare listlessly at her computer. She looked at the large Japanese landscape painting hung on the opposite wall. She was both rigid and jittery. She was both trembling and frozen. She was –

...The telephone at the reception rang.  
“Yeah?” The girl answered, “Yeah. Alright. Sure, Doc.” She hung up and tilted her head at Mr. Yang, “Room number two, sir.”

Over the next few hours – three, according to the clock above the reception – a steady stream of patients walked in and out of the clinic. Her parents had done well for themselves... which really wasn’t a surprise. The sheer number of loyal patrons they had gathered over the years back home had been unrivalled by any other clinic in the near vicinity.

By twelve-thirty PM, the waiting area had emptied. It was time to break for lunch, Hermione supposed. The receptionist leapt off her chair, picked up her bag and shot out. Five minutes of silence followed, and Hermione used the time to bite all the skin off her lower lip.  
Then she heard a door open; a knot formed in her chest. She heard it shut with a soft snap... heard the gentle clicking of heels on marble...  
She _felt_ her before she saw her. Mum. Something in the air maybe... or maybe the exact tenor of the footfalls... something instinctive, intuitive.... _Oh,_ _heavens._

Mum had chopped her hair off and was sporting a charming, Mia Farrow-esque cut. Her freckles had come out, dotting her nose and upper arms. She was humming to herself as she paused in front of the reception to drop a file on the desk and put on the light coat that had previously been draped over her arm. It was _such_ a familiar move, the way she tilted her head as she pushed her arms through the sleeves, and then shrugged her shoulders to set it in place.  
Hermione was so enraptured by the scene that she nearly toppled into the plant beside her when dad walked into her line of vision. He hadn’t cut his hair... he never would. Was she imagining it, or were the unruly curls truly a little more salt than pepper than before? His skin had a light tan, the crow’s feet and laugh lines on his face were deeper; he’d obviously been spending a lot of time outdoors. He sauntered over to mum and chucked a file onto the reception desk as well, saying, “Has she _ever_ lingered a moment longer than necessary?”  
(On hearing his voice, Hermione felt a wave of terrible, splintering affection that doubled when her mum said–)  
“Olivia? Of course not. Never.”  
Dad grinned widely... beautifully... and placed a hand on the small of mum’s back as they walked out of the building.

 

* * *

 

Theo was mashing his fist across the buttons of the remote control as he sat before the telly with big, round eyes.  
“Hermione!” he cried, “This thing’s bloody _mad_!”

_First the headlines. In Brisbane today, a –_

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Hermione asked, walking over to sit beside him on the sofa.  
“Nope.”

_Sautee the finely chopped shallots till golden-brown in colour... yes... like this... then add a tablespoon of –_

“You’re going to break the remote, Theo.”  
“...”  
“ _Theo!_ ”  
“What?”

_Don't want to close my eyes  
I don't want to fall asleep  
'Cause I'd miss you baby_

Hermione snatched the remote from his hand.  
_“Oi!_ Hey! What??” _  
_ “You were going to break it.”  
“No I wasn’t!”

_I'd still miss you baby  
And I don't want to miss a – _

With a click of a button, Hermione wiped the screen clear off an emotional Steven Tyler, and Theo shot a petulant glare at her.  
“Where’ve you been anyway?” he grumbled.  
She looked away from him and peered at the remote in her hand. “I went to my parents’ clinic.”

He was quiet for a while. She ran her thumb nail along the grooves between the channel number buttons.

“Oh.”  
“Hm.”  
“Did you see them?”  
“Yes.”  
“And... Um...”  
“They’re fine. Happy.”

He fell silent again. Hermione’s thumb nail travelled over to the volume control buttons. It left a temporary dent on the rubbery material.

“You’re wondering if restoring their memories is a good idea after all,” Theo stated matter-of-factly. It would never _not_ surprise her that he could read her so well.  
“I – I’m,” Hermione stuttered, “They’re _happy_ , Theo. The moment I bring them back... they’ll be crushed. And – and _angry_ and devastated –”  
“And they’ll deal with it. If one thing’s clear from what you’ve told me about them it’s that they’re very strong.”  
“Not where I’m concerned,” Hermione muttered, “I’m their weakness and I... _I_ did this to them. They won’t... they won’t recover! They’ll –”  
“They will –”  
“They’ll never forgive me! They’ll HATE me.”

Theo sucked in a long breath and pried the remote gently from her hands. “Now who’s going to break it?” he murmured kindly. Then he put an arm around her and said, “They could never hate you. You know that. You know _them_. They’re your parents.”  
“Not anymore. They’re successful, _happy_ people... what right do I have to fuck with that? How can I... _how can I_... do that to them?! It made sense the first time, yes. It kept them alive. But now? Now? I can’t! I just... I can _not_.”  
“Hermione,” he rested his chin on the top of her head, “You deserve to have your parents back, after everything you’ve –”  
“So I selfishly just go and ruin their lives?”  
“They deserve to have _you_ back.”  
“They can’t miss what they’ll never know they had. Oh _god._ ”

She buried her face into his shoulder, brimming with the need for a cathartic cry, but controlling herself for she knew that it would be nothing more than a fleeting fix.  
“I’m so tired of feeling guilty,” she burbled, “I’m so tired of feeling wretched. I’m so tired of being _tired_.”  
“I know,” he said as he twined one of her curls around his finger, “I know. You don’t have to decide right now, Hermione. Take your time... think it over.”  
“Okay,” she agreed in a weary whisper.  

 

* * *

 

So she thought it over. For three days she vacillated, lost in her tormenting dilemma, making and unmaking decisions as she draped herself on various bits of furniture in their fancy suite. It was torture – and she did not use that word lightly.

The pain she felt then was no less searing than that she had felt at the end of Bellatrix’s wand. The wand that she was, on the forth morning, spinning artlessly between her fingers has she lay across the foot of her bed, staring at the high ceiling of her room. It was the position she had been in all night.

“Did you sleep at all?”  
Hermione turned her head to look at Theo leaning against the frame of the door. He had a can of coke in his hand.  
“A little.” She hadn’t.  
He raised his brows sceptically but didn’t comment, choosing instead to watch her fiddle with the wand in her hand.  
“You know Ollivander has reopened his shop, right? There’s no need for you to be using her wand.”  
“It isn’t hers anymore.”  
“But... I mean...”  
“I killed her.”  
“Yeah.”  
“It works fine for me now.”  
“Okay.”  
“It’s just a wand.”  
“I know.”

Hermione turned back to stare at the ceiling and she heard Theo sigh. “You really should eat something, Hermione.”  
“Maybe later.”  
She knew she was frustrating him, and she knew she was being unbearably difficult. She knew these things but still she persisted, hoping that he’ll get sick of her and go back home.  
Oh, how she _didn’t_ want him to go back home. But... she _did_ want him to go, because then her misery would be whole and complete.

These were her thoughts and she hated herself.

 

* * *

 

“Let's go out for a bit.”  
“Why?”  
“Just...” Theo shrugged, trying for lightness but chewing his tongue frantically, “It’s nice out. This is what they call _winter_ around here, can you believe it?”  
“Where will we go?”  
“Anywhere. What do they call it here... walkabout?”

He took her down to Southgate Avenue, where there were pubs, cafes, and restaurants galore, and they strolled among the tall structures of steel, glass, and concrete for hours. The wind was nippy in the best way – a light sting against her skin _._ She took in a deep gulp of cool and clean air and looked up at the heavens: Home of the almighty, apparently. The Lord, God, Allah, Vishnu, Zeus, Odin... She was playing their game now, wasn’t she?

 

* * *

 

She revisited the Wilkins’ clinic again, a week after her first visit. It was just as packed, and she didn’t bother going inside. She stood – disillusioned – outside, just minutes before closing time.  
Sure enough, not too long later, the blond receptionist skipped out. And then, five... seven... ten minutes after that...

“...Sullivan brat is a damned menace I tell you,” dad grumbled as he held the door open for mum, “He tried to bite my finger off SIX TIMES!”  
Mum grinned, her face rosy in the light of the setting sun, “Why do you think I _conveniently_ had an urgent phone call to attend to the moment I saw him in the waiting room?”  
“You cow!”

They kept walking down the pavement, rather than going towards the row of cars parked across the street. Hermione followed. She was so focused on tailing them that she knocked into at least a dozen people – there would probably be a news report tomorrow about how this area was suddenly haunted.

At a T-junction they turned left, and suddenly they were on a road running alongside a beach. Mum pulled her jacket tighter against her body as the cold sea breeze rushed to greet them. They walked on ahead for another ten minutes or so.

The house they entered was a pretty, stucco-finished thing with large glass windows. The patio was enormous, complete with a grill and deckchairs. The gentle sound of moving water tied the whole scene together beautifully.  
Hermione followed them down their smooth concrete path, (so unlike the rocky pathway back home). Mum ran her fingers over the straight top of the tidy hedge that ran along it, (so unlike the unruly hedgegrow back home.)  
“I’ve been dreaming of wine all evening,” she murmured.  
“And as the man of your dreams who makes all your dreams come true, I will ensure that you –”

She cut him off with a kiss and they both walked into their home, and their daughter-who-wasn’t... finally _knew._

 

* * *

 

“Maybe we should go over the plan one more time?”  
Hermione bit her lip and glanced at Theo. He was immersed in some ludicrous show called _Who Dares Wins._  
“Morgan’s dried up tits – he’s not really going to jump! Oh fuck me, he is! He’s going to jump! He’s – HEY! Why do you keep doing that?!”  
Hermione had switched the telly off. She glared at him. “I _said_ ,” she gritted out, “We should go over the plan one more time.”  
“I know it backwards. And I also have a good handle on what I have to do: Nod along and smile. I’m good at nodding, and my smile is a wonder of the world. I have it covered. Don’t you worry about it, darling. I’m solid. I’m ready and rearing to go. I’m –”  
“ _Jesus_.”  
“Erm, no. His dad, actually.”

She couldn’t stop the exasperated smile and eye-roll that that quip inspired, and Theo, delighted at the reaction, nudged her shoulder with his. “It’ll be fine, Hermione.”  
In a flash, the smile slipped of her face. “Until it won’t.”  
He shook his head, “I didn’t say it’ll be easy, or pleasant, or quick... but it will be fine. It will be.”  
“When did you become such an optimist?” she asked, keeping her voice low to ensure that it wouldn’t tremble.  
“I’m not an optimist. But where you’re concerned, Hermione... I always hope for nothing short of the best.”

 

* * *

 

Here’s what had happened: Time had frozen for a spell, with her mum and dad framed in their doorway, looking at each other and smiling. Time had frozen and they had turned into a picture: A picture nearly identical to one in Hermione’s beaded bag... with but one difference. The one in Hermione’s bag included her.  
And at that precise moment, she _knew_. She belonged in the picture before her too. She belonged with them, and to them. They belonged to her.

It was that simple. Nothing in the world would be right until they’d found each other again.

 

* * *

 

She held onto Theo’s wrist like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. The innocuous wooden door in front of her seemed to get larger and larger with every passing second...

“Er... planning to knock?” Theo asked with the kind of mild curiosity generally reserved for asking your local grocer about his wife’s health while he bagged your goods.  
“Yes,” Hermione whispered.

The door was enormous _really_ and definitely burning hot to touch and it probably secretly had teeth.

“Hermione?”  
“What?”  
“Knock.”  
“Yes.”

....

“ _Hermione!_ ”

She lifted her hand and pounded on the door like a maniac: Loud, with machinegun-like persistence. (“Bloody hell, you – !!”)

  
The door was yanked open and dad blinked down at them in alarm.  
“Hul...lo?” he said, eyes darting from her to Theo, and back.  
“Hello,” Hermione gasped, and then he looked straight at her.

It wasn’t the right look; it wasn’t the way he was supposed to look at her – the way he’d always looked at her – with immeasurable warmth and uncontainable delight. She wasn’t being nostalgic or emotional; dad _always_ used to look at her like she was a miracle he was blessed to behold. So badly did she ache to see that look on him, so _badly_ did she want him to pull her into his arms that it stunned her speechless.  
“Yes?” he prompted, cocking his brow.  
Theo smiled. Widely.  
“We’re sorry to bother you, uh, sir,” Hermione pulled herself together and began awkwardly, (more than a little distracted by the way Theo was ardently _nodding_ ,) “My name is Hermione, and this is Theodore.” (- Cue for Theodore to offer another devastating smile -) “We’re students... from the department of Anthropology in LSE... here on an exchange program. We’re doing a survey on British expats and integration and...” Hermione waved her hand about desperately, “such things, and, um, if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you... and your wife... a few questions.”  
Looking highly sceptical, dad eyed the two of them for a moment before asking, “How did you find out about us?”  
“Well, you’re quite famous around here, sir,” Hermione gushed. She grinned her most charming grin – “Everybody’s favourite dentist couple.”

It worked. It always used to work, and the fact that it did once more, when dad wasn’t really _dad_ gave her a glimmer of hope.  
“Come on in,” he said cheerfully, it was _almost_ , nearly right.

He led them down a short hallway, with eggshell walls covered with an impressive collection of prints and paintings –  
Hermione didn’t look at them; she knew them all. Her focus was on the back of her father’s head. Those curls, his curls, _her_ curls......... she clasped her hands together to stop herself from running up to him and hugging him from behind.

  
“Who was it?” said a voice from the room they were just about to enter.  
“Couple of kids from back home. They’ve got some questions for us.”

She was comfortably coiled on an armchair with a book in her lap, wearing an ugly, misshapen muffler that Hermione had knitted for her during the height of her SPEW days. Why on earth had she kept that when all its sentimental value had been erased from her mind?  
“Um... come again?” mum enquired, smiling gently at the two strange young people in her home. (They must’ve looked _very_ strange: Hermione knew her cheeks had to be scarlet and Theo... Hadn’t. Stopped. Beaming. For a second.)  
Hermione barely looked at the pretty sitting room – at the large windows and the many bookshelves and the rustic furniture – once again, she found herself unable to formulate a sentence.  
Dad shrugged, “Students from... LSE, yes?” (Theo nodded. ) “Right-oh. Tell the lady why you’re here then,” dad said pointing towards a sofa for them to sit on, “I’ll get us something to drink. Fresh lemonade alright? I make the most fantastic lemonade you’ll ever taste. Tell them, Monica.”  
Mum rolled her eyes and deadpanned, “He makes the most fantastic lemonade you’ll ever taste.”

“Well,” mum said once dad had gone, still with her lovely, good-natured smile.  
Hermione swallowed all her emotions and gave her the same flimsy excuse she had given dad. Mum squinted, watching her closely as she explained. “I see,” she stated after Hermione’s voice had petered out, “What exactly are you hoping to prove?”  
“The... the ease of social integration in first world countries post-globalisation.”  
“Hmm. Fascinating.”  
They were rescued from mum’s penetrating stare (and the intensity of her Academic Persona,) by the arrival of dad, carrying a tray with four tall glasses of pale yellow liquid. Dad’s famous lemonade – it had been a summer staple her entire life.

  
The moment the tray was set on the coffee table, Hermione launched into action.  
“Excuse me, sir, madam,” she said politely, “Would you mind if I took a closer look at your bookshelf? I’ve been unable to stop _staring_ at it...”  
As she’d hoped, both her parents brightened, and accompanied her to their vast collection of books.  
“How have you organised these,” she breathed with believable awe, running her fingers along the books’ spines. She quizzed them relentlessly about things she already knew: Why was Spinoza next to Wittgenstein? Were the fiction novels categorised by style... oh, _and_ geography!  
She froze when, on the small bit of wall between the second and third bookshelf, she encountered a framed photograph: The ex-Grangers standing in front of a fountain in Hyde park, with a gap between them where a tiny girl of about three could easily have fit.  
“That’s a lovely photograph,” she croaked.  
Mum and dad came to stand on either side of her, unconsciously mimicking the picture as it used to be.  
“Thank you,” mum murmured, “This was what... 81? 82?”  
“82,” dad said, turning to smile at mum. Then he looked down at Hermione and – – his eyes widened. He stared back up at mum.  
“Blimey,” he breathed, “ _Damned_ if you both don’t loo–”

“You were right, Mr. Wilkins,” Theo broke in loudly, “Best lemonade I’ve ever had.”  
“I – er – yes – thank you,” dad muttered.  
They went back to sit and Theo gave Hermione the subtlest of nods. “You’ve got to try this,” he urged, pushing the only remaining unspiked glass towards her.

 

*

 

The last of her parents’ memories – the last night they’d known her – had been restored. The final silvery thread had seeped through their skulls and back into their minds.  
Hermione dropped her hand and took a step back. “I’m done.”  
“Shall we wake them?” Tentatively, Theo placed a hand on her shoulder.  
“In a minute.”

A minute passed. Then three more. Mum and Dad were slumped against each other breathing erratically, and their eyes were darting around behind their closed eyelids.

“I can’t do it, Theo.”  
The room was so silent, such a pretty little cocoon of peace. Hermione thought she was going to die.  
“Shall I?” he whispered, ducking his head to look at her face.  
“Okay,” she tried to say, but couldn’t quite manage it.  
With a reassuring squeeze of her shoulder, he placed himself before the sleeping couple, and without fanfare or ceremony, uttered, “ _Renervate._ ”  
He stepped back when mum let out a soft hum, and dad sucked in a sharp breath. Hermione watched them slowly come to, on dread-anticipation-burgeoning-wonder shaped tenterhooks: A slow build-up of _O Fortuna_ in her head...

  
“Ugh,” dad groaned, and pressed his palms against his eyes. Mum’s eyelashes fluttered as she sluggishly blinked into a state of wakefulness.  
“What,” she croaked, “What happened?”  
“Mum?” Hermione whispered, “Dad?”  
They both jerked like they’d been electrocuted. Their heads snapped towards her with violent celerity.  
“Hermione?” dad gasped, “What – _Hermione?_ ” He was on his feet a moment later, eyes wide with an untethered terror.  
“Dad – calm down – I can explain –”  
“Explain? What? Explain _what_? What happened – you... I didn’t know you... I...”  
He reached towards her and shrank back in one fluid move. Still on the sofa, mum whimpered. Both her hands were pressed against her mouth as she fixed a look of utter dismay on her daughter.  
“It’s okay,” Hermione begged, and she took a step toward them... only to see them flinch. “Mum... dad... everything will be okay now. Please, _please_ calm down... yes, sit down dad... I’ll explain... I’ll tell you what happened.”  
Dad lowered himself back onto the sofa, never once looking away from her. Mum, however, didn’t lower her hands.  
“What do you remember?”  
“Remember?” dad muttered weakly.  
“Yes... what is the last thing you –”  
“You and... this boy... you said you’re students... I believed you. I didn’t know you. _You._ _I_ didn’t know you, Hermione! What the – I haven’t... this whole year... I didn’t...”  
“Do you remember the last night at home?” Hermione interrupted his panicked stuttering, keeping her tone as soft and even as she could, “You’d sent me up to my room to pack; we were meant to leave for Australia the next day. You both were watching telly, and I got you some tea, and...”  
She broke off abruptly, and something swirled in both her parents’ eyes.  
“I remember the tea... then...” dad blinked. Then he exploded, “Jesus Christ! Then what? I remember waking up... and suddenly we’re... I’m not... WHAT WAS IN THAT BLOODY TEA, HERMIONE?”  
He’d _never_ yelled at her before. Not like that. Not in that heart-rending, scary manner. “Nothing. There wasn’t anything in – well, a drop of sleeping draught but –”  
“WHAT?”  
“After you fell asleep... I... _ugh_.” She hung her head and confessed in one breath: modified your memories. I changed your identities, made it so that you moved here for good. And I made you forget you ever had a daughter.”

She’d dropped the bomb, and it’s chilling, devastating repercussion lasted for an eternal moment. The silence after an earth-shattering explosion is always the most profound. Above her fingertips, mum’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Dad’s mouth had fallen open in horror.  
“What,” he hissed by and by, “You did _what_?”  
“I – um, I –”  
“ _Why_? Why would you – how _dare_ you –”  
“I didn’t have a choice!” Hermione wailed in desperation, “They were coming after me! They would have used you to get to me! They would have hurt you... _tortured_ you –”  
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? Who are _they_?!”  
“Death Eaters,” she cried, “Voldemort! There was a war... I had to keep you safe, or else they’d have – no listen – I’m... Listen, mum! I was a target! They knew I was friends with Harry – not to mention a muggleborn – and they knew where you lived, and... and I did what I had to do to keep you safe! To keep you alive!”  
Mum squeezed her eyes shut.  
“A war?! THAT’S your excuse?” dad bayed, “A sodding _war_? You violated our minds because of a war that nobody noticed happened?!”  
“It was mostly confined to the magical community – but you’d been seeing the news, hadn’t you? All those murders, the so-called natural disasters...”  
“It’s true,” Theo piped up hoarsely from behind her, “It got very –”  
“Who are you?” dad snapped.  
“He’s my friend. Theo. He –”  
“Why didn’t you tell us any of this? Why didn’t you talk to us? You had NO RIGHT to do this. _How could you_? To me? To your mother?”  
“I’m sorry!” Hermione cried, “I am so, so, so very sorry. Please believe me. If I thought I had _any_ other option, I’d –”

“Get out.”  
It appeared that mum had finally removed her hands from her face. Her mouth was turned down in a livid scowl.  
“Mum.... wha...?”  
“Get. Out.”  
“No, please,” Hermione implored, half raising her hand, “Just let me –”  
“GET OUT,” mum shot up to her feet, “Get out... NOW.”  
“You’d better leave,” Dad ground out. He was glaring determinedly out of a window.  
Hermione felt her soul rumple. “Just........ _Please_......”

She was pulled out the room by Theo’s gently coaxing arms.....

“If you would just listen!”

His arms wrapped around her the moment they were back in the hallway....

_“_ No... Please. _Please_...”

He disapparated them and the final syllable of her anguished plea dissolved into nothing.

 

*

 

_Man hands on misery to man.  
It deepens like a coastal shelf.  
Get out as early as you can,  
And don’t have any kids yourself._

 

Three hearts had been broken by her so far. Ron’s face morphed into dad’s face morphed into mum’s face.  
She’d tried to apologise to them all – she’d tried to apologise to _Malfoy_. She was delirious with guilt and grief, so she pushed open the window of her room and whispered an apology to Bellatrix out into the night.

She dragged her head back inside at the sound of a knock: “Yeah?”  
Theo popped his head around the door, mouth pressed into a straight line. “I take it you aren’t joining me for supper then?”  
“Nope,” Hermione answered, dragging her fingers through her hair.  
He huffed, “Well I have something for you,” and held out a small phial.  
“Dreamless sleep?”  
“Yes.”  
“No thank you,” she declined emphatically.  
“You need to sleep, Hermione,” he ground out impatiently, “When was the last time you slept?”  
She shrugged.  
“Well, it shows,” Theo continued, “You look ghastly.”  
She smiled thinly, “But don’t you think these purple rings make my eyes pop?”  
The unamused look he levelled on her made her want to apologise again.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Hermione sat down in front of the telly with a bag of crisps and a bottle of wine.

  
*  
  


Later that afternoon, she was still in front of the telly, the former bag of crisps was a crumpled ball on the floor, and the bottle of wine was nearly empty.

Theo didn’t seem to be around.

  
*  
  


In the evening, the room got steadily darker and darker, and she remained in front of the telly with a fresh bottle of wine. There was some inane game show going on, and the host was an obnoxious, vivacious bugger with gleaming teeth. He probably had a great dentist.

  
*  
  


At night she gently rolled off the sofa and onto the thick carpet. The room was awash with flickering, unnatural blue light spilling out of the television screen which she had muted, and with the way her vision was swimming, she could pretend she was underwater.  
Droooooooooooooooowninggggggg.

With a small _fump,_ a head landed beside hers, and her eyelids fluttered as she smiled at Theo.  
“Hi,” she breathed.  
“Alright?” he asked with a half smile of his own.  
“Completely blotto.”  
He chuckled, and they both stared up at the chandelier above them.  
“You know,” Hermione drawled, “There was a chandelier hanging over me when Bellatrix was torturing me, too. It was much grander than this one.”  
Theo’s pinkie brushed against hers as he said, “Well, nothing but the best for the Malfoys.”  
“Of course,” she snorted, “But the point is... this is torture too. This. Right now. Let's go back ho– Ha! Let’s go back to England.”  
“Let’s just hang around a little longer.”  
“For _what_? For fucking _what_? Bleh!” She slapped her hands over her eyes. Hard.  
“Give them some time, Hermione,” Theo advised softly, “Just a little more time.”

  
*  
  


“What the _fuck_ is that?!”

Those were the first words out of Theo’s mouth when he woke up. They’d both fallen asleep on the carpet at some point last night, and Hermione had managed two full hours of shut eye.  
But now, the sun was streaming in through the windows and Theo rubbed his eyes as he gaped, appalled, at the telly.

“They’re bananas,” Hermione told him, “In pyjamas.”  
“I can see that!” he snapped, “But... just... _why_?”  
Hermione tilted her head, “I’m not sure.”  
“What the hell are they eating?”  
“Munchy honey cakes.”  
“Good grief, they’re terrifying. Luna would love them.”

  
*

 

 

It was late in the evening when their telephone rang.

“HERMIONE!” Theo hollered from the sitting room, “OI! WHAT’S IT DOING?!”  
With a sigh, she rolled off her bed and shuffled over to where he was perched, charily _poking_ the receiver.  
“Is this how muggles communicate? It’s worse than a howler!”  
“Oh, move off,” she muttered, “Hello?”  
“Good evening, Ms. Granger. Reception. There are two people here – a Mr. and Mrs Granger waiting to –”  
“Send them up,” Hermione rushed out.  
“Of course, miss.”

Hermione set the receiver down in a daze, her breathing escalated till she was near-hyperventilating.  
“What?” Theo demanded, “What is it?”  
“They’re here! My parents... they’re here!”  
“Ah.”  
“What do you mean ‘ _ah’_?! How did they know where to find me?”  
“Well,” he hedged, “I may have nipped out while you were determinedly getting pissed yesterday, and I _may_ have gone by their place and left a note on the front door...”  
“You did what?” she stared at him.  
“Well, I had to give them the option of reaching out to you if they wanted it... and you know they’d have wanted it...”

But before Hermione could respond, a sweet little tinkle announced the arrival of her parents. They were there – right there – behind the door. Her legs had turned to lead, so it was left up to Theo to walk over and let them in.  
The light from the corridor puddled around the threshold, and she fixed her eyes on it. She watched two pairs of shoes – scuffy grey brogues and shiny black boots – step into the pool and make their way towards her. As they approached, her eyes climbed upwards, and she took in their faces: grim, tired, and faded. All the abundant joy she had witnessed a few days back had dissipated; _she_ was to blame for that.  
“H–h–hello,” she whispered, clasping her hands together.  
Dad nodded. Mum looked away.  
“Thank you... thank you for coming.”  
Mum still wouldn’t look at her. Dad sighed. “You wanted us to listen,” he said curtly, “So we’ll listen. Tell us everything, Hermione... all that you’ve been hiding and omitting for god knows how many years.”  
“Yes, okay, I’ll –”  
“No lies. I need... we _deserve_ to know everything.”  
“I will tell you everything,” she avowed and swallowed thickly, “I promise.” 

 

* * *

 

Their shadows loomed large and grotesquely distorted, thrown onto the walls by the light of a single lamp. There were four glasses, a bottle of scotch, and a bucket of ice sitting on the table, the last of which was dotted with tiny drops of condensation. Everybody was technically silent, but the impact of Hermione’s monologue seemed to boom and echo around the room like the sound of a hundred brass gongs.  
A monologue is exactly what she had launched into, and she told her parents everything. All the horrible things she’d had to contend with over the years, things that she had glossed over or not mentioned at all. Dad had sunk lower and lower in his chair as she’d gone on, interrupting only two or three times to ask a question. Mum had begun crying very early on... and she hadn’t stopped. But she still wouldn’t look at Hermione.

  
“Well, that’s what happened,” Hermione mumbled weakly.  
Dad reached out to pour himself another healthy helping of scotch, and downed it in one go.  
“You mean to tell me that I nearly lost you a dozen times since you joined that blasted school and... _honestly_... what kind of hellish school is it? What is this world you’re a part of? God damn it. Every year we let you go to that place, thinking you’re learning how to pull fucking rabbits out of a hat, and you’re out there fighting for your life, fighting _against_ some evil –”  
He broke off to pour himself another glass. Mum sniffed loudly.  
“How could you not tell us?” dad demanded furiously, “How could you not say a word? We’re your parents! We are supposed to protect you, not you us! What were you thinking!”  
“They were witches and wizards dad,” Hermione muttered, imploring him to understand, “who _hated_ people with no magic. They would have tortured you and ki–”  
“FINE!” dad thundered, “I get it. We’re weak little muggy things who didn’t stand a chance! But we’re not _stupid_ , are we? You should have told us! And you should have let us take care of you... take you away from all that!”  
Hermione closed her eyes. “How could I have left, dad? Left Harry? Ron? Ginny? All my friends? All the other muggleborns and halfbloods who didn’t stand a chance?”  
“Bugger that!”  
“No, dad. I did what you taught me. I fought for what was right. I fought alongside my friends and for my rights, and against oppression and tyranny –”  
“Oh shut up,” mum sobbed. Still, she didn’t look at her.  
“Mum,” Hermione entreated, putting all her _everything_ in the word.  
“What if you had died, Hermione,” dad asked hoarsely, “What would we have done?”  
“That’s why I made you forget me,” she replied, closing her eyes once more.  
“My god,” dad groaned, “I can’t believe you did this. I just... shit... I can’t. Can’t believe it.” Then he laughed a pained humourless laugh that hurt every bit as much as her mother’s tears did.

  
Quietude roared again... until Theo cleared his throat.  
“If I may,” he enquired in a low voice.  
“Ha,” dad barked yanking his hair off his forehead, “Go ahead.”  
“I have the happy advantage of being well-acquainted with the other side – the Death Eaters. My father’s one of them, see? Charming fellow, terrorised me, killed my mum, worked tirelessly to legalise muggle hunting once more, etcetera, etcetera. Now, I’m sure Hermione has convinced you that this war was serious business already, but let me tell you that taking her away would’ve amounted to fuck al – er, pardon me – nothing. The Dark – _Voldemort_ had great ambitions... and if he hadn’t been defeated, you lot would’ve spent the rest of your lives running. And they would’ve been _very_ short lives.  
“Because if it wasn’t for Hermione... Voldemort... would not have been defeated. Potter would’ve been long dead if it wasn’t for her, and we’d all be languishing under the rule of an unhinged, bloodthirsty despot. She wasn’t just a foot soldier in this war, Mr. and Mrs. Granger – she was in the vanguard. If it wasn’t for her staggering brilliance and bravery, we’d all have been done for.”

Hermione wanted the floor to swallow her up, and she peer down at it pathetically, hoping that it would oblige. But who ever listened to her, right?  
The floor did not swallow her up.

She looked up when the motion of mum tugging at dad’s sleeve caught her eye.  
“Right,” dad nodded and stood up, “We’ll be off then.”  
“Wait... what...?” Hermione gasped, a new wave of dread washing over her. Was that it then?  
“It’s late,” dad replied, “We should head back. But...” he coughed awkwardly, “I am making dinner tomorrow – that vague estimation of paella that you love so much – so... it would be nice if you could come by. Monica doesn’t appreciate it half as much.”  
“Evelyn,” mum rasped, “My name is Evelyn.”  
Then she walked out the door, and Hermione didn’t even get a parting glance. Dad let out a shuddering sigh and followed.

 

* * *

 

“Are you okay?”  
“I suppose.”  
“Dinner is a good sign, yeah?”  
“I hope so.”

They were sitting on some steps on the Yarra river promenade, watching people meander around in their Sunday best.

“I don’t think mum will ever forgive me.”  
Theo shook his head, “She will.”  
“You don’t know that,” Hermione replied dully.  
“Oh I think I do,” he quirked his mouth at her, “You, darling, are impossible to stay angry at. Ask me. You’re _adorable_ when repentant... it’s irresistible. Do you think I let just anyone get away with ignoring me? I mean, you somehow even got Draco to stop wanting to obliterate you for screaming at him.”

She felt her face heat up and she looked away... a gust of wind skidded over the water and rushed to cool her down again.

 

*

 

She received a letter from Harry and Ginny via the consulate sometime around noon. They asked her how everything was going and she sent a reply saying everything was going well.

 

* * *

 

Dad’s (vague estimation of) paella was as sumptuous as ever, yet Hermione struggled to keep eating. She was hyperaware of the way dad was watching her so closely, and the way mum wasn’t looking at her at all.  
Theo, however, was scarfing down spoonful after spoonful.  
“Excellent stuff, Mr. Granger,” he pronounced, “Truly exemplary.”  
“Er, thank you,” dad mumbled. He pushed his food around his plate for a moment before asking, “So... how long have you two been together?”  
It was truly unfortunate that Hermione was taking a sip of water at the time.  
“Nope,” Theo said hastily, as she hacked out a lung, “Not together, sir. I’m the greatest person Hermione knows, but that’s about it. I have a girlfriend... she’s wonderfully dotty. Hermione introduced us, actually; just another reason why I’m so desperately grateful to her. She’s truly the best friend a bloke could ask for... except when she’s throwing a tantrum for no reason, or when she’s making me spend hours in the library, or when she’s the reason I have to endure death defying situations... like riding on the back of a blind dragon... alongside a _Weasley_. But all worth it of course, when you weigh the pros and cons. She’s brilliant, isn’t she? So compassionate, and yet so ferocious... I mean, she’s the only person I know who can make my prat of a brother shut up. It’s glorious. Furthermore, I’ve even come to find that –”  
“Theo,” Hermione choked, “Why don’t _you_ shut up?”  
He was affronted in the most _Theo_ manner. “Well excuse me for trying to extol your virtues so that your parents decide to forgive you sooner!”

She could only open and close her mouth wordlessly at that. But then, amazingly, dad laughed. A true laugh, a _real_ expression of mirth, an authentic Dad Laugh. He threw his crazy hair back and guffawed. Hermione shot a startled glance at Theo and he grinned back at her triumphantly. She then stole a surreptitious look at mum, and though she was still steadfastly staring down at her plate, she was most _definitely_ fighting a smile. She never could resist dad’s laugh.

 

*

 

The evening was blustery and dad lit up a small fire in the back garden for them to sit around.  
“I’m going to bed,” mum announced not five minutes after they’d settled.  
“Evie, come on...” dad murmured, reaching for her hand.  
“Goodnight,” she said firmly and walked back inside.

Staring at the bright flames as they flickered and disappeared into smoke, Hermione conjured all sorts of trite metaphors about life’s inconsistencies. She felt odd... vacantly burdened. Squeamishly comfortable.  
Dad sighed and swept a hand through his hair. “You’ll be moving in here now, wont you?” he asked Hermione.  
“I...” she swallowed, “I hadn’t planned on it.”  
“Of course you are,” dad said decisively, “We’ve a spare room that could only have been meant for you... I see no other reason for us to have decided to paint the walls purple.”  
“Is that wise, dad?” she wondered, “I don’t think mum would like it.”  
“She’ll come around, Hermione. You know her, don’t you? She always comes around.”  
_But it’s different this time_ , she wanted to say... instead she found herself rolling her eyes when Theo proclaimed, “That’s exactly what I told her!”  
“On what basis did _you_ make that claim?” dad asked with raised brows, even as his mouth twitched with amusement.  
“Man’s intuition,” Theo replied superciliously.  
“ _Right_ ,” dad grinned, then turned to Hermione, “This chap’s a nutter. Where on earth did you find him?”  
Hermione huffed a laugh. “Oh, he’s always been around, skulking all over Hogwarts like a surly bat –”  
“Sod off, Hermione –”  
“But then he suddenly attached himself to me, and I couldn’t shake him off. Not only was he unspeakably persistent, he didn’t even ease me into his true personality. I was delivered the full Theo experience from the get go.”  
“Sounds harrowing,” dad muttered with faux-gravity.  
“She was charmed, I tell you! Utterly charmed –”  
“Then I sicced Luna at him – thought that would shake him up a little... but he went and fell in love with her –”  
“Unbelievable.”  
“She fell in love with me too! Because I’m a _gem_ –”  
“And then I had to endure _months_ of him pining –”  
“I did not _pine!_ ”  
“– getting all flustered and ridiculous –”  
“– and speaking of pining... do you REALLY want me to bring up your ginger obsession?”  
“–finish all the sweets and cakes you used to send me! Literally gobble them up like some sort of monster –”  
“You offered! You bloody well OFFERED!”  
“You know,” dad broke in in a firm voice, “we do have neighbours. I don’t think they care for screaming young men.”  
“Honestly, Theo,” Hermione shook her head, “Do control yourself.”  
He stuck his tongue out at her, and she laughed.

Only Theo could’ve done that. Only Theo could have taken a moment that really _ought to_ have been heavy and severe, and turned it into one full of bubbling lightness.

 

* * *

  
  


“Well then,” she whispered in the last few minutes they had left in their suite.  
“Well then,” Theo parroted.  
They hugged each other tightly.

In the lift he said, “How long do you plan on staying?”  
She replied, “I’m not sure... but I’ll be back well before term starts.”  
“Mm. Good.”  
“Give my love to Luna. And Ginny and Harry if you see them.”  
“I will never give Potter _love_ , Hermione. Not even for you.”  
“Prat.”  
“But if I come across Thomas, Finnigan, or Longbottom... yeah. I’ll give them your _love_.”  
“Gosh, thanks,” Hermione intoned dryly.  
“And who else...” Theo quirked his brow at her, “Bill and Fleur?”  
“Sure?”  
“Xenophilius?”  
“Er...”  
“Draco?”  
Hermione stuck her nose in the air and declared, “I will never send Malfoy _love_ , Theo. Not even for you.”

For the rest of the journey down to the lobby Theo wore a small, enigmatic smile on his face as he hummed the _Bananas in Pyjamas_ theme song.

 

* * *

  
  


The walls of the room were her favourite shade of purple. The bed had two large, fluffy pillows – just as she preferred it. Above the bed was a framed print of bottles painted by Morandi. There was an enormous bookshelf running across the length of one wall, half full of novels that she loved, poetry anthologies, art history tomes, and political treatises.  
It was, to summarise, exactly the sort of room she’d claim as her own. Her parents had made it so even when they didn’t know she existed; it seemed to her that while she had successfully erased herself from her parents’ minds, she hadn’t been able to remove herself from their... souls? Ah, that annoying schism once more. Nonetheless, whatever... impulse... had driven them to prepare this room was something Hermione cherished.

She set her beaded bag on the floor, and sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. From the open window, a cold breeze rushed in, tickling the ceramic chime that hung from its frame and caused it to dingle melodically. She could see the tops of trees and the blurry hint of the bay beyond.

 

“All settled in?”  
Hermione started, then gathered herself and smiled faintly at her father who’d appeared at her door.  
“Yes,” she replied, “Thank you.”  
He stared at her. “Dinner will be ready in an hour or so. I’m making grilled chicken.”  
“Sounds fantastic.”  
He continued to stare at her. She blinked awkwardly, fighting the urge to wring her hands... until finally, he raised his arms and said, “Oh come here, you little monkey.”  
She sobbed, wailed, gasped – made some sort of _noise_ – and ran to him. He hauled her up into his arms, squeezed her, and it was like being bathed in mad, overpowering relief. Fear, hunger, hurt, torture, death – she’d seen it all and now there she was, being soothed in an embrace that made her feel safe, full, warm, and loved. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against the slightly rough fabric of dad’s shirt.

 

* * *

 


	45. Forty-Five

Home is where the heart is. But what would you call it if the heart is broken?

It had been a week. Every morning, Hermione pretended to be asleep as her parents got ready and left for work. Then she wandered around the empty house, picking up books at random to read, or staring glassy-eyed at the telly, or going for walks down to the beach.  
Dad had been trying to be cheerful. He’d smile at her, ramble about his day as he fixed dinner and Hermione stood by him, chopping or peeling things as he’d request. And while the tightness in his eyes hadn’t fully disappeared, and he’d still flinch every time Hermione made a sudden movement, he was coping far better than mum who still wasn’t speaking to her. She wouldn’t even _look_ at her. It was truly the worst Hermione had ever felt in her life. She felt repulsive.

Well, most of the time. There were moments when her indignation would reign supreme: Moments when she’d feel that no matter how hurtful her actions had been, her parents were alive because of it. And by some miracle, she was alive too. _We’re all alive, mum! Don’t you see how phenomenal that is?!_

 

* * *

 

“So now we don’t know whether to stick with the name, or change it to Granger’,” dad said as he and Hermione sat sipping tea in the kitchen one evening, “We’re quite well known as the Wilkins’... it’d be odd and inconvenient to change it. And I don’t know... are we supposed to go around telling people we aren’t called Wendell and Monica anymore?”  
Hermione squirmed. Though he had spoken lightly and conversationally, his posture was rigid. He was not _feeling_ light or conversational.  
“Um,” she rasped, “You... plan on staying here?”  
“Yeah. We spoke about it, your mum and I... we like it here. Not to mention the fact that all our brothers and sisters are furious that we left with barely a word and haven’t felt the need to stay in touch all year. Was that part of your curse?”  
“It wasn’t a curse, dad.”  
“Whatever,” he said curtly, “The point is, their collective wrath is not something either your mother or I have the energy or patience to deal with.”  
“And you’re... you’re going to remain as the Wilkins?”  
Dad shrugged, “Professionally, at least.”  
“I – I see.”

She wasn’t prepared for how badly that stung. She had been so sure that they would go back with her and become the Grangers in their house in Hampstead again. Maybe when they’d all be back with the right names, in the right place... everything would be right again.  
But they were going to inhabit their new guise and they would stay in their new home and their new lives, all which had nothing to do with her.

“Why are you crying?” dad asked, looking flustered.  
“It's nothing.”  
“It’s never _nothing._ ”  
“It’s just – I – I thought we’d all go back home. Together.”  
He sighed heavily, and shifted his chair closer to hers, so he could put an arm around her. “This is our home now, Hermione.”  
“O–Okay then.” She turned her face away as she felt it scrunch up with anguish.  
“Damn it, Hermione,” dad cried, “You messed with our minds! There had to be some repercussions! We’ve spent a year here building a life and reputation, growing roots... this is who we are now!”  
“I get it –”  
“No you don’t! You did your spell, you blotted yourself out of our memories, but we were still _us_. _We_ came to Melbourne, _we_ set up our clinic, _we_ made a life here. It wasn’t all some dream we can wake up and walk away from. Besides... I... I can’t imagine going back to that house. My life’s been fractured, Hermione. I can’t go back.”  
She nodded, and while still looking at the floor said, “And I can’t stay here.”  
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” dad began, “Er... hey. Do you mind looking at me? There you go, my pretty girl. Now. I don’t think I’m very comfortable with the idea of you going back to that school.”  
“Wh– _What_?”  
“Are you really surprised, after everything you’ve told me?” he asked incredulously.  
“Voldemort is dead, dad. It’s not going to be like that anymore.”  
“Look, Hermione,” he insisted, “There hasn’t been a year of your life since age eleven that you haven’t faced grave danger. And it’s all because of that school! How do you think I feel, as you father, as someone who’s done his sodding best to keep you sheltered and safe –”  
“As someone who’s taught me the importance of education, I think you’d understand why I _have_ to go back!” she retaliated.  
“Ha!” dad barked, “What education? What are you even _learning_?! What has that place done to you that you feel _justified_ in doing what you did to us?”  
Hermione’s chair scraped loudly as she shot up to her feet, “I told you why I did it! You _said_ you understood –”  
“I understood why you did it, sure. I just don’t understand _how_. How could you even bring yourself to –”  
“Do you think it was easy?” She was shouting now. “Do you think I didn’t agonise over it endlessly? That it didn’t wreck me? Do you think I don’t feel awful – absolutely bloody _awful_ – for doing that to you?! But I do not regret it, dad. No. I don’t. Because you’re alive. You know, Lupin – who was also killed by the way – had told me that one of the first places the Death Eater’s planned to attack was our neighbourhood. Think that’s a coincidence? And Theo told you what would have happened if I had run away with you. This was... it was the only thing I could think of while I – while I taught myself to survive, and spent my time planning and practicing and and god, knowing that Harry could very possibly die – and that would be the end – and – I just – he was counting on me to have answers – and I – I _–_ I saw you dead, dad. You and mum... when I was being tortured... please, dad –”

Her words died out to make way for great, gasping sobs, and she folded her arms around her waist, nearly doubling over. Dad gripped her shoulder with one hand, but otherwise didn’t move. And though her vision was foggy, she could tell that he was crying too.

 

* * *

 

  
It was around ten in the morning when she stepped out of her room, clad in a tracksuit, ready to run laps by the sea. Being unable to sleep was killing her, so she thought she’d tire herself until she couldn’t possibly stay awake.

But in the hallway she encountered mum, struggling to manoeuvre a wheeled suitcase while checking her pager. There was also a bulky looking duffle bag on her shoulder. She froze when she noticed Hermione.  
“Um, would you like some help?”  
Mum faltered, oddly deer-in-the-headlights-like, considering. Hermione just hoped she wouldn’t ignore her, because she simply couldn’t _couldn’t_ handle another blatant rebuff.  
“No thank you,” mum gritted out, “I’ll manage.”  
Hermione pushed her luck: “Where are you off to?”  
“Seminar in Perth.” 

And then mum rushed past her, the wheels on her trolley-bag scraped against the wall and left a razor thin scratch on the blue wallpaper.

  
“Bye,” Hermione muttered to the empty corridor.

 

* * *

 

  
She huffed and panted, bent over with her hands against her knees. She must have run for over an hour. Beads of sweat dotted her temples and her legs burnt from overexertion.

Such a magnificent feeling.

  
It was an overcast afternoon, but sunlight still broke through the cloudy canopy above dazzlingly, catching random waves being tossed around by the wind. The wind that Hermione had run _against._ She looked back at the path she had sprinted – the tiny craters that her haphazard footfalls had created – before unceremoniously dropping to the ground with a thump. She lay back and squinted against the flashing beams of light, while her hands clenched and dug into the sand.  
Sand: The tighter you tried to hold onto it, the quicker it slipped through your fingers.

 

*

 

By the time she got back home, her sweat had dried off and so had her endorphin-fuelled high. She stood under a hot gush of water for twenty minutes before crawling into bed and she slept till the sun had set and dad came to call her down for supper.

 

* * *

 

  
Three days after mum had left, dad took off from work. Hermione became aware of this at six in the morning, when he pounded at her door and demand that she get dressed, (“Sturdy, comfy clothes, alright?”) and hurry downstairs.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him.  
“We’re going for a walk,” he replied nonchalantly.

 

And so they went for a walk. Dad took her to Mentone beach, down a small path along the coastline. The beauty of the seaside when the day was just being born was, of course, sublime.  
“The Heidelberg School artists used to camp about here,” dad said, gesturing around him.  
“Australian Impressionists?”  
“Yeah. You can see why, right? I mean, this sort of landscape is just...”  
He trailed off, so Hermione muttered, “ _Made_ for light and colour exploration.”  
“Heh,” dad chuckled, “ _Exactement_. Now come on, we’re not here to stroll. A brisk early morning walk is very good for the Englishman’s – and woman’s – heart.”

Hermione’s legs were still so stiff from her run that she suffered, (oh she suffered!) but she suffered in silence. The nippy air felt good against her face as it heated up.  
“So dad,” she huffed, “How’d you manage to take off work?”  
“When your mother isn’t around, sweetheart, I’m the boss. I gave myself a holiday. I’m very generous that way.”  
She laughed, and he laughed at her laugh. Frothy waves on one side, dusky wilderness on the other, and for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt centred.

  
They were quite for some time, before dad exclaimed, “Oh Hermione... you’ll never guess who stops by the clinic every time he’s in town!”  
“Who?” she asked, piqued.  
“Well... guess!”  
“Dad, you just said I’ll _never_ guess.”  
“Hmph,” he grunted, but his grin was intact. “Steve Waugh! I’m officially Steve bloody Waugh’s dentist. Er, when he’s in town. ...Which, to be honest, isn’t all that often...”  
She raised her brow.  
“Well, alright. He’s visited twice.”  
“That’s serious patronage, dad. Wow.”  
Dad scowled. “You’re so like your mother. That’s exactly what she’d said.”

The mention of mum sobered Hermione immediately, and dad realised it. They fell into silence again, and this time it lasted for a much longer spell of time.

  
  
They reached a jetty, shooting off the shore and placing them in the middle of sea and sky like they were standing on the edge of the earth. Dad stooped to rest his elbows against the wooden railing and peered at the horizon.  
“You should talk to mum,” he said, “When she gets back.”  
Hermione stood next to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and muttered, “She doesn’t want to talk to me.”  
“She does, my love. She really does. But she’s... feeling so much that she doesn’t know how to start. You need to _make_ her talk to you.” When she didn’t respond, he sighed and gently nudged her head with his shoulder. “Hey... you know her. She sulks, but she always wants to talk things out. Promise me you’ll try.”  
Hermione lifted her hand and rested it on his wrist. “I’ll try. I promise.”

A little blue and white bird landed atop a corner post and shook its wings... and then fluttered off again.

“I never fully realised what it meant,” Dad murmured, “You being a witch. Never really internalised it. It was such a bizarre and... whacky... thing. Then you’d come back from school and tell me you can make things fly, and turn teapots into mice and what not... and I just,” he sighed again, “Everything was so fantastical that I didn’t involve myself enough. You spoke about things, about your life and ambitions – and I was so terribly proud, never doubt that – but I just listened. That’s all. I didn’t question you enough... I didn’t pay close enough attention... I... damn it... I’ve not been a very good father to you, have I?”  
She was aghast, and she immediately straightened to stare at him, “You are a _wonderful_ father! You and mum have been the most supportive and loving –”  
“Supportive and loving, sure,” dad interrupted with a sardonic twist to his mouth, “But absent. We’ve been absent. I will never forgive myself for that. I should have grilled you for answers. I should have been more aware! My little girl had been playing with her life year after year, and I didn’t have an effing clue! What kind of father am I? Tell me... why didn’t I push to meet your teachers even _once_ in six years? I talked to Arthur about electric generators for _hours_ but I didn’t once ask him about how he thought our kids were doing. I didn’t ask him about the school, or how your world functions. I didn’t bother to learn much about _anything_ that constituted your new life. And I am... I’m so ashamed, Hermione. I’m so very _sorry_ –”  
“Dad...” she choked out, “Don’t.”  
“If I had involved myself more... been a _father_ rather than a dumb, enthralled spectator, maybe you wouldn’t have done what you did. Maybe you would have trusted me with the truth. Maybe we could have helped each other. Maybe... maybe... oh, I don’t know.”

The cracks in the cloudy sky were golden yellow like syrup.

“I want to be able to move on,” Hermione sniffled, “I want to move past the chaos, the violence, the hurt. I want to go back to school, and ace the N.E.W.T.s. I want to get a job that I’ve earned, and that’ll let me work for things I care about. I want to live my life, and hang around with my friends, and sit down for dinner with you and mum while we talk about... about... Rumi. I want to feel okay. I just want to finally feel _okay_.”

That little blue and white bird returned to perch on the same post as before, this time with a winged insect in its beak.

“You know I love you more than anything in the world, don’t you?” dad asked.

 

* * *

 

As Hermione walked into her parent’s clinic, she thought about the last time she’d been there: Wrecked. Terrified. Disillusioned, in more than one way.

She was utterly visible this time, and the girl at the reception shot her a look the moment she entered.  
“Hello,” she said with forced pleasantness, “What can I do for you?”   
“Um, nothing,” Hermione replied, “It’s fine. I’m just waiting for da– er, Dr. Wilkins.”  
“Don’t have an appointment, do ya? Well, we’ll be breaking for lunch right now, I’ll see if I can fit you in later in the afternoon...”  
“No, that isn’t necessary; I’m not a patient, I –”

“Hermione!”  
She spun around to see dad jogging towards her with a big smile on his face. “Ready for lunch?”  
“Absolutely,” she smiled.  
“Great.” He then regarded his receptionist, (who was looking most curious,) and said, “Olivia, this is my daughter.”  
“Now where’d you get a daughter from?”  
Dad sighed tragically. “Look, Olivia, if your parents haven’t told you about the facts of life yet, I really can’t help you.”  
“Ooh, you’re funny, doc,” Olivia sniped dryly, “I mean... I’ve never seen her around before.”  
“I was at boarding school. In Scotland,” Hermione told her, fighting a grin.  
“Right. Beaut. What’s your name again?”  
“Hermione.”  
Olivia peered at dad. “You and lady doc are _really_ good at naming things, aren’t you?”  
“Yes,” he said simply, “Now we’ll be off, alright? Be good. And for the love of god, please be back on time.”  
“Sure thing,” Olivia grinned, and waved as dad led Hermione out of the building.

 

* * *

 

  
The letter arrived in the mid-morning... that familiar crisp white envelope with the Hogwarts’ seal. But her name and address weren’t written in spidery cursive and the usual glittering purple ink, no; they were neatly printed across the front in sharp, no-nonsense black.

Headmistress McGonagall was pleased to let her know that Hogwarts was ready to reopen. She would be delighted if Ms. Granger would return to complete her schooling. She had immense faith in Ms. Granger’s abilities, blah bloody blah. She was also please to announce that Ms. Granger had been appointed as Hogwarts' Head Girl for the year, 1998-99.

  
Hermione didn’t stop to mourn the demise of another childhood dream when she sent the shiny golden badge back to McGonagall, along with a terse letter expressing (something akin to) regret. It wasn’t something she was sad about. In fact, she smiled at the notion; for once, she had _declined_ to shoulder responsibility. You see Headmistress, Ms. Granger would like to be accountable for no one but herself for a while. Ms. Granger wanted to spot kids breaking rules and look the other way. Ms. Granger wanted to defy curfew without feeling guilty. Ms. Granger wanted to drink illicit alcohol for fun, rather than because the world was too hard to bear sober.

 

That night when she woke up with a gasp after another nightmare about giant snakes and desecrating fire and Tonks, Fred, Lupin, Colin, Lavender... she walked over to her window to press her face against the cool glass. When she pulled away, the glass was wet and splotchy.  
Those were the dreams she chose to mourn.

 

* * *

 

  
“Here,” dad said in a conspiratorial quasi-whisper as he shoved two bottles of beer in her hand, “Go on.”

 

Mum had gotten back the day before, twisting at the door to drag her suitcase in, and Hermione hadn’t given her a moment’s notice – she’d barrelled into her and hugged her.  
It stunned her, the immediacy with which mum embraced her back. And not in a perfunctory, placating manner, either. Mum held her tightly, (one long squeeze during which Hermione felt the kind of wholesomeness that she’d been craving,) for a few moments. But the second her arms slipped away, she walked around Hermione and disappeared upstairs.

 

That brought us to the current moment: Six-thirty in the evening, and dad was in the kitchen, steaming fish for dinner.  
“Go on!!” he urged, gesturing wildly towards the patio where mum was draped on a deck chair.  
“I’m _going_ ,” Hermione gritted out.  
With trepidation sitting like an iron ball in her throat, she dawdled her way towards the door and out; mum looked up at her, eyed the bottles in her hand, and sighed. Shaking her head in a way that was almost amused she asked, “Your father’s idea?”  
Mum was looking at her _and_ speaking to her. “Yes,” Hermione blinked, “Um, here.”  
She handed her a bottle, and diffidently sat down on the chair beside her.  
“Didn’t think to give you a bottle opener, did he?”  
“Oh. Oh no. It’s no problem, I’ll...” But when Hermione took out Bellatrix’s wand to sort out their problem, mum blanched and recoiled away from her. “Sorry!” Hermione gasped, “I’m sorry! I’ll –”  
“It’s fine,” mum muttered tightly as she slowly straightened her posture once more, “You can... it’s fine.”  
She held her bottle out and Hermione sheepishly tapped Bellatrix’s wand on its cap. “Sorry.”

They sipped from their bottles to the tune of meticulous chirping – a hundred cicadas making their strange, esoteric music. The light from inside fell in small specks across the patio floor, and threw weird shadows all across the lawn.  
“It’s a lovely garden, mum.”  
“Thank you. Nothing like the old one, I know. But the climate here is a bit different.”  
Hermione breathed a laugh. “Quite an understatement, that.”  
Mum didn’t respond, making Hermione wonder if she’d somehow offended her by attempting to make rubbish small talk. (To be fair... it was mum who had brought up the weather.)

“How was the seminar?” she tried again.  
“Dull.”  
“Ah. That’s a pity.”  
“Hm.”

They sipped from their bottles, and now the chirping of crickets felt like a horrendously appropriate sound effect. 

“Dad took me to the clinic the other day. It’s very nice.”  
“Thank you.”  
“And I met Olivia. She seems like quite a character.”  
“She is.”

They sipped from their bottles, and Hermione was so close to tears.

“So does that friend of yours.”  
She all but spat the sip she’d been taking right back into the bottle in her haste to reply. “Huh?”  
“Theo. He seems like quite a character, too.”  
As always, the thought of Theo’s character made her smile. “Oh, he really, really is.”  
“He’s gone back to England?”  
“Yes. Though he said he might visit sometime.”  
“Your dad thinks he’s fantastic.”  
“He’s not wrong.”  
One corner of mum’s mouth quirked up in an approximation of a half-smile. “He’s the one you mentioned in your letters, right? The one who you had us send one of Mabel’s famous mud cakes for?”  
“Yes,” Hermione nodded eagerly, “He practically inhaled the whole thing. He also loved her cinnamon biscuits. And her butterscotch fudge. And her date and walnut loaf.”  
That earned her a full smile.

The next couple of sips were laced with hope and hazard. Hermione knew very well that they could continue talking in that manner all evening; it would be pleasant... and so very wrong. Glossing over the resentment just wouldn’t do.

  
“Are you ready to talk to me, mum?” she asked in a small voice, (Mum’s only reaction was one prolonged blink, and a loud exhale,) “Please?”  
“What do you need me to say?” mum whispered hoarsely.  
“I – I know you’re angry, and –”  
“ _Angry_?!” she spat, “Hermione, I’m furious. The kind of fury that’s almost incomprehensible!”  
“God, I know. I know, _I know_. And I wish I hadn’t had to do that to you. But...” her voice withered as mum’s eyes flashed.  
“But _what_?”  
“I vastly prefer you being angry with me than you not being here at all.”  
Oh but that was apparently the wrong thing to say. Mum set her beer bottle down on the ground with a kind of dangerous slowness. She sat up till her back was ramrod straight. “And I,” she hissed, “Would vastly prefer having control over my own mind.”  
“I didn’t change who you are mum,” Hermione said in the same small voice, “I didn’t touch your thoughts, feelings, or rationale. I just –”  
“You just zapped yourself from my head. Yes.” Mum’s tone was getting louder with each word, “And tell me, do you think any of those thoughts and feelings have _any_ meaning to me without you? To hell with everything else. You are what matters to me more than any of that! And what if you had –––– _died._ What then?”  
“You wouldn’t have known–”  
“I wouldn’t have known. My daughter is dead, and I wouldn’t know. Don’t give me that bullshit about it not mattering because I didn’t remember you. No matter what the scenario, you are and always will me _my daughter._ You took that away from me. And if you had died, Hermione... _oh_. If that had happened, I would want to feel every second of it. I’d want to be consumed by the sheer agony of it.”  
Hermione opened her mouth to speak but mum wouldn’t allow it.  
“I don’t give a damn about the ethicality of what you did. I can’t even think about _anything_ beyond the fact that you stole yourself away from me and happily leapt into a suicide mission.”

Mum got up and left after that. She didn’t join dad and Hermione for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast the next morning was as strained as Hermione expected. Mum was puffy-eyed, dad was white-faced, and she didn’t even want to know what her own face was like.

Four days went by and Hermione kept up her daily runs by the beach. She read _Of Human Bondage_ for the second time.

_It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real, they are bruised and wounded.  
_

 

* * *

 

  
One Sunday, when Hermione came back from her run practically shaking from the exertion, she found mum waiting for her in the kitchen.

“I think you might be overdoing it,” she said.  
Hermione tried to remain impassive... as opposed to screaming, or freezing, or jolly well exploding with anxiety. “I’m fine.”  
“You’re far too thin. You look ill. Sit,” she commanded, nodding her head towards a chair.  
Hermione complied, and seconds later there was a tall glass in front of her. “Um...”  
“Chocolate milkshake,” mum supplied, and sat down on the seat opposite her.  
“Thank you.”

Hermione kept her eyes on the layer of froth lining the rim of her glass as she drank. Mum didn’t say anything, but she was watching her so very closely.  
“You need to take bigger servings of your meals, too,” mum ordered once Hermione had finished.  
“Okay.”  
“Are you drinking enough water?”  
“I think so?”  
Mum snorted delicately. “No. You aren’t. And you’re clearly not sleeping very much either.”  
“It’s a lot better now,” Hermione mumbled, fiddling with the hair band around her wrist, “I’m managing to sleep through most of the night. I think being here has helped... it’s so completely removed from... from... everything.”  
“That’s good,” said mum with narrowed eyes, “Do you really think going back to that school is the best idea then? Isn’t it central to the trauma you’ve been through?”

Hermione suppressed a sigh. But of course she’d share dad’s opinion on that matter; however mum had the remarkable ability to remain clinical in such situations.    
“It’s more than just that. And I want to see Hogwarts become Hogwarts again – not the place of the final battle – the place where my friends died – but the place where I finally felt...”  
“Finally felt _what_?” mum insisted impatiently.  
“Like I wasn’t a complete freak.”  
Mum’s face twitched. After exactly four seconds she asked, “Are Harry and Ron going back as well?”  
“No.”  
“How come?”  
“They accepted jobs at the ministry.”  
“Weren’t you offered one too?” Mum looked annoyed.  
“Yes.”  
“Well, why didn’t you take it?”  
“I want to pass my exams first.”  
Mum’s annoyance turned into something far too complicated to label. “I see. What about Theo?”  
“He’ll be there. And Luna and Ginny. Dean, too... I think. And –”  
“You probably want to take a shower,” mum cut in abruptly.  
Hermione sucked in a breath. “...Yes. I mean... okay.”  
“There’s a lovely little bookshop nearby; just twenty minutes away. Hurry down and I’ll take you.”

 

* * *

 

  
A crooked sort of peace descended upon the Grangers over the next week. June had trickled into July, and the air turned colder, the wind sharper.

Mum had set up a daily routine for her. She ran, she read, she ate, (seeing which, dad’s cooking got more and more elaborate,) and she slept. Sometimes her nightmares would wake her up within minutes. Sometimes strange shadows would turn her blood into ice. Sometimes she’d spontaneously burst into tears while standing under the shower.

  
But she also watched bad telly with dad and laughed till her stomach hurt. She pruned the garden with mum. She walked over to their clinic every afternoon and chatted with Olivia while she waited for them to join her for lunch. One evening, they sat out around the smouldering fire pit and Hermione took in their faces and asked them if she could show them something. They didn’t flinch when she pulled out Bellatrix’s wand, and were delighted by the sight of her shimmering otter patronus.

  
The day Hermione finally decided to restore all their old photographs was a difficult one. They spread the lot out on the living room floor, and all three of them had tears in their eyes.

  
Dad tried to teach her driving one day. Hermione refused point blank the next day. One evening, they gathered around the telly to watch a film about the RMS Titanic that had gotten rave reviews. Mum fell asleep halfway through and dad was more focused on a sports magazine. Hermione found it quite tedious as well. (Except for the male lead, who was rather... well. But he also reminded her – vaguely – of Malfoy and _that_ certainly was tedious. Malfoy was more like the vile fiancé, anyway.)

 

And finally, the day that Theo was meant to visit arrived. Hermione came out after a long shower, steaming and humming... and she paused in front of the mirror. Her skin was glowing, and her cheeks were flushed scarlet. Her hair had grown considerably; the rings under her eyes were absent.  
She stared at her reflection and thought, _Hermione Granger_ , and... Blimey! It was a perfect fit.

 

* * *

 

  
Hermione sat with her face pressed against a window, staring at the gate to the house like a hyper-vigilant watchdog. Dad was sitting in a nearby armchair, ostensibly reading the paper, but mostly he was laughing. At her. The moment she saw his lanky frame step into the garden pathway, she was off like a rocket. She dashed towards him with a humungous grin that he mirrored and then she was being spun around as he hugged her.

“Hello,” she said laughingly.  
“Hello, you,” said Theo.

She dragged him towards the house, and mum and dad were standing at the door, smiling indulgently.  
“Dr. and Dr. Granger! Lovely to see you again!”  
“You too, lad,” dad chuckeld, “Come on in. Can I offer you some –”  
“Lemonade? Merlin, yes. I have dreamed of that lemonade so many times in the past two months.”  
With another chuckle, dad disappeared into the kitchen.

 

*

 

“Well this is a nice change,” Theo exclaimed loudly when mum affectionately ruffled Hermione’s hair as they sat in the living room.  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s all right, Theo. We’ve talked and things are getting better. You really don’t have to be obnoxious and make uncomfortable jokes.”  
“Really?” he beamed, “Thank Theo.”  
“Thank... um, what?” mum spluttered.  
“No!” Hermione moaned, “Please don’t ask.”  
But by the size of Theo’s grin, she knew it was too late.

 

*

 

The locals were hosting a small market that day, selling trinkets, baubles, and plants. A row of diverse food trucks lined the back. Mum, dad, Theo, and Hermione roamed amongst the colourful spread while sipping hot cider from paper cups.  
At a clothes stall, Theo bought a _Bananas in Pyjamas_ t-shirt.  
“You know that’s for a three year old, right?”  
“I am a wizard,” he declared loftily, “Perfectly adept at casting growing charms.”

At the same stall, he also insisted on buying scarves for mum and Hermione.  
“You really don’t –”  
“Don’t be _absurd_ , young man –”  
“Oh, I insist. You’ve paid for all my food and I know I don’t eat like a bird.”  
He took advantage of the fact that mum’s hands were full of Agave plants, and threw a wad of money at the seller. He also bought a long tie-and-die gypsy skirt for Luna.

They wandered further, and dad got caught at an antique shop that was selling a cricket ball that may or may not have been used during the 1992 world cup final. Mum stayed back to stop him from spending an exorbitant sum on it, (“What do you want it for, anyway... England lost that final!”)  and Theo and Hermione strolled ahead.

At one point, he stopped dead.  
“I need that lamp,” he declared. The lamp in question, covered in seashells coated in glitter, was the tackiest thing Hermione had ever seen.  
“That’s the tackiest thing I have ever seen,” she said.  
“Exactly. I need that lamp. For the centre table in my new flat.”  
“Did you hear me correctly? I said it’s TACKY.”  
“And did you hear me say EXACTLY? It’s for my flatmate.”  
“Yes... I suppose... if anyone could appreciate the, ah, _uniqueness_ of that lamp, it’s Luna.”  
“I won’t be living with Luna.”  
“No?” Hermione blinked.  
“Nope. Xeno still needs her around, apparently. Laying it on a little thick, if you ask me.”  
“I see.”  
“Yeah. I _need_ that lamp.”  
“But wait,” Hermione stuttered, “If you’re not living with Luna, then who...” she broke off when Theo shot a _who-do-you-think_ look at her.  
But of course. Who else? Hermione considered the hideous lamp once again, and pictured grey eyes widening in horror. A sneer. _What the fuck....?!_  
“You need that lamp,” she affirmed.

 

*

 

“... and so she set a flock of angry canaries at him,” Theo finished his unnecessary rendition of a certain anecdote from Hermione’s life with much relish.  
“Can you _stop_ ,” Hermione groaned, attempting to shake her hair forward to cover her face while dad’s laughter resounded all around the room.  
“And one time,” Theo went on after spearing more of dad’s fine lasagne into his mouth, “she kept wizarding Britain’s top journalist in a jar for weeks.”  
“Excuse me, _what?!_ ” mum sputtered.  
“I would hardly call her a journalist –”  
“Oh, and let me tell you about how she organised a dissident group – an _army_ if you will – in fifth year to stick it to the establishment, and turn out the malicious woman who was out to ruin Hogwarts.”  
“Umbridge is actually evil, alright! She deserved –”  
“Deserved to be carried through the forest by a herd of blood-thirsty centaurs?”  
“Excuse me, _what?!_ ” mum sputtered, while dad continued to laugh.  
“You should have heard my inquisitorial housemates moaning about you lot that year.”  
“Shameless sycophants, all of them!”  
“I’m sorry,” mum interjected, “Can we go back to the blood thirsty centaurs?”

Long after dinner, and long after mum and dad had retired to bed, Hermione took Theo down to the shore. He conjured a thick woollen blanket and they lay side by side, like they used to by the Hogwarts’ lake.  
“McGonagall wanted me to be Head Girl, you know,” Hermione told him. The sky was so thick with clouds that not a single star was visible.  
“Hmm.”  
“I turned it down.”  
“I know. She gave the job to Susan Bones.”  
“Oh,” Hermione smiled, “She’ll be good for it.”  
“You know who the head boy is?”  
“No. Who is it?”  
Theo didn’t reply till she’d looked at him, and with a face full of glee he said, “Longbottom.”  
Hermione felt the top of her head fly off. “Oh my..... wow!”  
“Right? Would you have ever thought...?”  
“No! But he deserves it. Absolutely.” And she laughed with pure delight, “He must be thrilled!”  
“He is. When he told me he was about six shots of firewhiskey down, and singing songs about glory.”  
Grinning, Hermione wondered, “When was that?”  
“Draco’s birthday. Finnigan made it his personal mission to get us all plastered.”  
“Dra – uh – what?”  
Theo smirked, “It was one wild party, Hermione. Thomas was there too, and he taught us how to dribble a football using a stuffed troll’s head. Tracey and Padma Patil were there. Joined at the hip, they are, and......”  
“...And?” she prompted when he suddenly stopped speaking.  
“Oh. Sorry. I got distracted by the thought of the two of them joined at the –”  
“You’re a prat.”  
“Yeah. Oh, and Bill and Fleur showed up too. Did you know Bill can chug a galleon of beer without breathing? Corner passed out in an alleyway. I shagged Luna in a bathroom stall. So... to summarise... it’s a crazy new world back home, full of strange friendships and stranger bedfellows. You’d better prepare yourself.” 

 

 

* * *

 

  
For a whole week after Theo left, Hermione had to recap every detail of every year she’d spent at Hogwarts. She cursed her _best friend_ to hell. After all, she had already told her parents all the big things that’d happened. Broadly.

It led them to in depth discussions about how the Magical bureaucracy worked, and about how the Magical media worked, to how the media in general worked, until finally, they were talking about human rights and moral values, and Hermione had once again turned into a complete heroine in their eyes.  
Huh. Well, perhaps Theo didn’t have to go to hell after all.

 

*

 

“I was angrier with myself than I was with you.”  
It was the morning after the crescendo of their discussions, and Hermione and her mother were sitting in the garden sipping tea.  
“What do you mean?” Hermione probed.  
“I understood why you’d done it even before the initial flash of red hot rage had dissipated. I – I _got_ it. You wanted to keep us safe and happy because you love us. You stayed with your friends because you are loyal and compassionate. You opposed that Lord and you fought for your rightful place in the world because you are brave and strong. _And_ you are brilliantly intelligent and capable, so of course you had to be a pivotal part of the resistance.  
“That’s when it hit me... you aren’t the woman I’d hoped I’d raised you to be. You’re _better_. You’re... just... so... amazing. I was furious with you, yes; but that didn’t stop me from feeling proud. I was in awe – in helpless awe – and I hated myself for it.”

Hermione had no words in her head, no voice in her throat. She felt cut off from all her faculties, and could only feel things she couldn’t name.

“I wanted to be a mother angry with her daughter. I wanted to focus on _what ifs_ and worst case scenarios, but all I could think was – _now, there’s a woman!_  
“Look, Hermione... I’m not saying that my resentment has disappeared, or that I’m not hurt anymore. I am. But you should know how I feel about the kind of person you’ve become. I always knew you were extraordinary, my darling... anyone who’s met you can confirm that. Just think of what it means that you’ve surpassed even my expectations!”

For hours Hermione lay with her head in mum’s lap, crying uncontrollably. Fingers gently carded through her hair, and the morning carried on.

 

* * *

 

Lobster, Hermione decided, was not her favourite food. Performing bloody surgery to get to her lunch was not something she cared for.  
“Isn’t it brilliant?” dad gushed.

  
They walked back to the clinic at a leisurely pace, and the moment they stepped inside, mum grumbled, “Well, of course Olivia isn’t here. Damn it, Mr. Ivanekov will be here any second. Oh, er... Hermione... do you mind manning the reception till she gets here?”  
It took a lot to keep from making a face. “Of course not.” She just really, really didn’t want to.  
“Okay. Extension one for my office, and two for your dad’s. But send Ivanekov to him please.”  
With that, she rushed away, and dad followed while muttering, “I always get that painful bugger.”

Hermione dealt with Mr. Ivanekov, (she would swear he was part of the mafia,) and Missus Jo, and Ms. Browning and Mr. Prakash, before Olivia swaggered in.  
“What are you doing here?”  
“Your job,” Hermione replied tersely.  
“Oops. Late again, am I? Sorry.”  
“It’s quite alright.” Stupid girl.  
“It's my birthday on Saturday. My friends and I are going to a bar by the beach to celebrate. It'll be nice if you show up.”  
Hermione’s brows lifted in surprise. “Oh. I...”  
“Come on. Let’s get you rotten. My boyfriend Matty's got hold of some really cool herbs, if you know what I mean...” Olivia winked wickedly.

_...it’s a crazy new world..._

“Sure. I’ll come. Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

  
It had started with one light beer. One innocent, harmless light beer that had loosened her nerves enough to vaguely enjoy the company of five complete strangers. There was Olivia, her boyfriend Matty, a Jake, a Matthew, a Jenny, and a Tabatha.  

But then three rounds of tequila shots happened. Then somebody pressed a fucking _strong_ gin and tonic into her hand. Then two shots of something awful and _pink_ that Jake insisted they try happened. Then another... one... two... what... rounds of tequila....

They were a giggling, stumbling hoard when they left the bar. Hermione was moving in a time lapse. Blink, and she was outside the bar, and blink, she was at a beach. The whole world was the sea and it was made of waves. Her heeled boots weren’t letting her walk on sand, so Matthew lifted her off the ground and carried her. She may have whooped, and perhaps that’s what encouraged him to swing her around and around.  
She vomited behind a bush.

They sat on the floor of a small blue gazebo that was floating through pure black nothingness. Matty pulled out two fat rolls of paper.  
“Happy birthday, baby,” he said to Olivia, “Best weed old Vic has to offer.”

After her first drag, Hermione coughed for seventy five years. The rest of them laughed and laughed dissonantly. After her second drag, she thought she might vomit again. After her third drag, she felt the railing behind her hit her back _obladi oblada life goes on, brah._

Forth drag, Tabatha and Jake were saying some bullshit about how the universe was magical. Ha. What did they know? Fifth drag and the unbearable lightness of being. Suspended in nothingness.

 

*

 

Dawn was blooming when Hermione peeled herself off the floor. Her companions were strewn carelessly around her in various, undignified poses.  
Well, all except...

Hermione stood up, ( _Jesus Christ!_ ) and closed her eyes against the wave of swirling nausea that that triggered. She staggered to the other end of the gazebo, and collapsed against a post. Olivia and Matty were sitting right at the edge of the shore; the water must’ve been coming all the way up to the place where their legs lay, tangled together.  
They made a rather cheesy silhouette, posed against a standard sunrise-by-the-sea background. ...But then she tipped her head up to look at him, and he bent his down to kiss her, and something in Hermione’s soul twisted so terribly, it gutted her. She was an echo chamber for loneliness.

The couple on the beach fell onto their backs, and Matty rolled them so that he was hovering over Olivia ––––

Hermione turned away, and pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

She gathered her hair into a bun, stepped over the scattered bodies and set off on the long walk to her parent’s home.

 

* * *

 

  
She broke the news over breakfast: “I think it’s time I went back.”

“Already?!” dad baulked, “But term doesn’t begin till September!”  
“I know... but it’s Harry’s birthday on Friday, _and_ I have to get all my books and supplies ready. There’s also a very ill-tempered portrait in my bag that needs to be returned to his rightful place.”  
She wondered what state 12, Grimmauld Place would be in.  
Mum set her fork and knife down. “When will you leave?”  
“Tomorrow evening.”  
“So soon!”  
Hermione sighed and offered her parents a small, sad smile. “I’ll be back for the Christmas hols.”  
“Not soon enough,” dad groused.

 

* * *

 

 


	46. Forty-Six

  
Percy and Mr. Weasley met Hermione outside the lifts in the British Ministry of Magic. It was quite late in the evening – nearing nine – and she was quite surprised to see them.  
“We’ve been working overtime this whole month, trying to get things back in order,” Mr. Weasley explained as they walked towards the atrium, “Every time we think we’ve got things on track, something else goes wrong.”  
Percy added, “Just two days ago, a group of snatchers that had gotten away, waylaid a muggle bus in Briton. Nobody was hurt,” he hastened to assure Hermione at her gasp, “But we had a lot of obliviating to do. Not to mention, more trials – thought we were done with those – _and_ now we know about at least a dozen nooks all over the country where more fugitives are hiding. Poor Aurors are getting run ragged. Well, here we are. _Ahem –_ The Burrow.”

 

She’d barely just stepped out of the blazing green flames, and the world narrowed down to a squeal, a hug, and bright red hair.  
“Hello, Ginny,” she laughed and hugged her back.  
“Herms!” she cried, “You’re back.”  
With a scowl, Hermione pretended to turn back towards the fireplace. “And I’m leaving again.”  
“Oh come now,” Ginny grinned and began dragging her towards the kitchen, “No herms no foul.”

They were all there in the kitchen, waiting to greet her with smiles and a table laden with food.  But George wasn’t among them.  
“So lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Weasley cooed, shoving her onto a chair and pouring her a glass of pumpkin juice.  
Hermione hummed a reply, and beamed when the occupant in the chair next to her nudged her with his shoulder.  
“Alright, Hermione?”  
“Not bad. You?”  
Harry smiled, “Not bad. How’d it go then? Your letters were surprisingly brief - almost disturbingly so. I was expecting the usual thirty feet long parchment full of every little thought you –”  
“Oh shut up,” she laughed, “I’m not that bad.”  
She spooned some carrots onto her plate and Harry peered at her. “You didn’t answer my question. How’d it go?”  
“It...” she sighed, “It went fine. They have their memories back, but they’re going to stay put in Australia... for now. I’ll visit them again in Christmas. They told me to tell you hello. Um, Charlie, could you pass me the gravy, please?”

Harry didn’t push her further, and they all ate, listening to Mr. Weasley talk about his day at work. It was only after pudding had been dished around that Hermione risked a peek at Ron. She choked on an inhale when she realised that he was already looking right at her. Tentatively, she turned the corners of her mouth upwards... and he jerked his head. It was a nod, she was certain.  
After everything she’d been through with her parents, Hermione recognised that every little gesture, every little acknowledgement counted.

 

* * *

 

  
Under the light of a single taper, she ended up telling Ginny every detail of her stay in Australia. They were quiet for a long time afterwards, each lying in their respective beds, watching the candlelight cast moving liquid shadows on the ceiling of Ginny’s room.

“How have you been sleeping?” Hermione asked by and by.  
“Much better,” Ginny replied with a sigh, “I used to need to fly for hours to tire myself... or have Harry really brutally, unforgivingly pound me into a mattress. Really savage like, I mean –”  
“Please stop.”  
“Oh, shove off.” From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Ginny turn her head and smirk. “Tell me something, you went and got completely pissed on a beach, with two stray blokes around, and you didn’t shag either of them?”  
“No Ginny, I didn’t.”  
“Why not?”  
“ _Ginny!_ ”  
“But isn’t that your thing? Experience something traumatic, and then find the closest pri–”  
“I will suffocate you with your silly Harpies cushion and feel no remorse.”  
Ginny giggled.

“I went running,” Hermione muttered as she flipped over to lie on her stomach, “On the beach. Every day.”  
“Nice,” Ginny muttered around a yawn. She was obviously close to nodding off, and Hermione, who was still running on Australia time, was wide awake.  
“George still hasn’t left his room?”

  
Ginny didn’t reply and they didn’t speak anymore that night. For a long time after the other girl had fallen asleep, Hermione lay in bed and read _The Ballad of Reading Gaol;_ Wilde’s heart rending lament rang across eras to knock the breath out of her.  
And when the first hints of dawn seeped into the sky, she put her book away, slipped on her trainers, and walked out into the early morning.  
She ran around the orchard, until the ease of it frustrated her. So she ran up hills, trying to recreate the strain of running through sand. She ran for... some stretch of time... she still hadn’t mended or replaced her watch.

When the sky had turned hazy gold, she sat atop a hillock – _her_ hillock – and scanned her surroundings dazedly. She felt so dislocated and jarred – less than a day ago, her life was eternal frothy waves and sand, a tidy tiled patio, a telly, mum and dad and a faltering reconciliation...  
But suddenly she was here: Trees and hills and scummy ponds, broken people and broken systems; brokenness that was a part of her and that she was a part of. She’d have to set aside her peace of mind and start a separate course of healing here, in this world.  
Her world? They were both hers, weren’t they? Or were they just territories that she’d appropriated by accident and a twist of fate?  The feeling of homelessness was a sick punch in the gut, and she missed her parents so terribly, it hurt.

_Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?_  
_Can I handle the seasons of my life?_

A month from now she’d be back at Hogwarts. The rapidity and brusqueness of things made her whole body sway. Hermione blinked, and it lasted longer than necessary. Her head began swimming with that familiar, welcomed lethargy that physical exertion bestowed upon her. Somehow, she willed herself to get up and trudge back to the Burrow.  
  


* * *

 

Harry’s eighteenth birthday was a sober event. Of course, Mrs. Weasley, bless her soul, did the very best she could to try and make it special. There was a cake that was smothered in chocolate frosting, and there was a lavish spread of delicacies, including two plates full of Harry’s favourite treacle tart.  
But Hermione was sure that they were all remembering Harry’s last birthday, when Fred and George had insisted on decorating the garden with balloons and lights. When Tonks had hand-fed Lupin cake, and he had looked drained beyond measure.

They were out in the garden, anticipating an influx of expected and unexpected guests. Hagrid came by, his massive boots leaving craters across the lawn where earlier, the afternoon’s shower had softened the soil, and wrapped Harry up in one of his near-fatal hugs. He looked very mawkish. Professor McGonagall showed up as well, and when Hermione smiled at her, all she got was a slightly frosty nod in return.  
(“Oooh,” Theo breathed into her ear, “Bad move, turning down head girl.”)  
Neville, Dean, and Seamus apparated in together, and while Hermione rushed to congratulate Neville on his newly acquired designation, she saw Dean and Seamus pounding Theo on the back with easy camaraderie.  
Right. They had _bonded_ on Malfoy’s birthday. She wondered if he might show up as well...  
_Ha,_ she shook her head at herself.

  
When dinner had been done with, they moved into the living room so that Harry could open his presents.  
Hagrid stepped outside briefly, and returned with a cage.... inside which was an owl. White and brown – and rather small and fluffy – with beautiful, large amber eyes, it hooted softy when Harry stroked the top of its head in awe.  
“Thank you,” he said to Hagrid arduously, his eyes suspiciously bright.  
Hagrid bashfully scratched the back of his head, “Thought it was righ’ that I be the one ter.... yeh know,” he muttered roughly.  
(“You should name it Hermione,” Theo suggested.  
“Jesus, yes!” Dean exclaimed, “It kind of does look like –”  
Hermione’s withering glare shut him down.)

Harry was overcome again, when he saw the present Ginny and Hermione had pooled their resources to buy. He gazed enraptured at the brand new broom in his hands, and then lifted his head to gape at them.  
“I know it’s no Firebolt,” Hermione began, but her words petered out when Harry walked over and hugged her tightly. He pulled Ginny out of her seat, and uncaring about the fact that her entire family was in attendance, he set her down on his lap.  
McGonagall had bought him a series of books about Aurors. The Weasleys had all chipped in to buy him a set of half a dozen sleek robes in various colours. Luna had made him a painting of Dobby surrounded by decorous wreaths of pastel-coloured flowers.  
Harry let out a short shaky laugh, and because Hermione knew him so well, she could see his slight irritation as not being able to completely reign in his emotions. Ginny kissed his temple, right then, and he nearly came undone.

That was when the boys – Dean, Seamus, Neville, and Theo – handed over their gift: A bloody _crate_ full of firewhiskey and a Honeydukes hamper. Mrs. Weasley and McGonagall’s identical looks of disapproval had them all sniggering, and so the tension ebbed away. Percy brought out another package, (“From Minister Shacklebolt; he’s sorry he couldn’t make it,”) which contained a dragon-hide wand-holster.

Eventually, one of the bottles in the crate was opened, and they all drank to Harry’s health. Hagrid, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill all claimed to want to make a toast, but Harry shook his head.  
“No. Please. This... this is enough. More than enough,” he sighed and stared into his glass, “I know, alright? I know. Thank you... all of you.”

 

A cosy, brilliant lull set in. McGonagall left very soon after, and then Luna, (who had to get back to give her father his potions,) and Theo. Bill and Fleur left, Hagrid left.  
Hermione settled deep into a sofa, slowly sipped her drink and looked around the room, smiling to herself. Harry was playing exploding snap with Neville, Dean, and Seamus, Ginny still on his lap, cheering him on. Percy and Mr. Weasley were deep in conversation, the latter had his wife’s feet on his lap and he gently massaged the soles. Charlie had cracked open a window to smoke, and he stared pensively into the night.  
Hermione started when the sofa creaked and started again when she saw who’d taken a seat next to her.  
“Ron,” she gasped softly.  
He cleared his throat. “Hey.”  
“Hi.”  
He looked horribly uncomfortable, almost like he regretted making the overture, but Hermione was too dazed and delighted to care. _He_ had come to _her_.  
“Amazing isn’t it,” she murmured.  
“What?” he asked with a frown.  
Hermione gestured towards the rowdy group gathered around the coffee table. “It’s Harry’s eighteenth birthday.”  
Ron blinked, and Hermione watched as his mouth curled into a small smile. “Yeah,” he agreed, “It’s bloody amazing.”

 

*

 

It was nearly midnight when the last of their guests got ready to leave. Seamus stood up and stretched and yawned in an obnoxiously loud manner.  
“Aright then, mate,” Dean said to Harry, “We’ll see you around.”

But just as they got to the door, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs made every single one of them freeze. In one collective motion, they all turned around –  
“George!” Mrs. Weasley cried.  
Nobody else seemed to be able to manage a word.  
“Yeah,” George muttered. His voice was raspy from lack of use. “Happy birthday, Harry.”  
“Th–thanks.”  
“Could you all come out to the garden for a bit?” he asked and walked out without waiting for their affirmation.  
Hermione exchanged a startled glance with Ginny as they all hastened to follow.

Once outside, George set a small box on the ground, took about ten steps back, and then set it aflame with his wand.  
All of a sudden, the world was alit! Tiny explosions sounded one after the other and sparkling, dazzling colours bloomed across the inky sky. Patented Weasley fireworks: beautiful, spectacular, in every imaginable colour, forming stars, and planets, and spinning wheels, and exotic birds with twinkling plumes. It was a majestic show... staggering in fact... and while its audience remained captivated, George slipped away and returned to his prison.

 

* * *

  


Hermione was alone in Ginny’s room that night, since her roommate had gone off to give her boyfriend a special, private birthday present.  
Still not acclimatised to BST, she plodded about the space moodily, too foggy-headed to put her mind to a book. She pulled Bellatrix’s wand out of her pocket and conjured her patronus to keep her company. The little otter bounded around the room, and for a while Hermione contemplated giving chase to tire herself out... but shit; who had the energy for _that_.  
She thought back to how gaunt and wan George had looked, and juxtaposed it with Harry’s overwhelmed countenance while going through his gifts. She remembered Ron’s reluctant smile, and Neville’s broad glowing one. The affection in Ginny’s eyes as she looked at Harry... the gentleness with which Mr. Weasley touched his wife...

She was almost _too_ aware of the moment Bellatrix’s wand slipped through her fingers. The silvery light in the room vanished, and abruptly, she was asleep.

 

* * *

 

On a bright and warm Saturday afternoon, Hermione and Ginny decided to go to Diagon Alley to get their books for school. It was the first clear day they had seen after four days of relentless rain. Hermione was really looking forward to seeing Diagon Alley restored to its former splendour: The way it had looked under Voldemort’s regime was an image she was quite ready to expunge from her mind.

Feeling bizarrely optimistic, she slipped into the pretty, sleeveless purple blouse that mum had bought for her as a “gift for the birthday I’d missed,” and hopped down to the kitchen for breakfast, where Ginny, Harry, Percy, and the Weasley-parents were already seated.  
“Ron’s sleeping in again?” Hermione asked Harry. It turned out that their ceasefire had been temporary: Ron had gone right back to avoiding her after Harry’s birthday.  
“Of course,” Harry chuckled, “Says he needs to sleep all he can before Auror training starts.”  
“Are you coming with us to Diagon?”  
“Yes he is,” Ginny replied for him.  
Eyebrows raised, Harry shrugged. “Apparently I am. But I will be wearing the cloak.”    
Hermione smiled at his expression and the smell wafting from her cup of earl grey. “I’m going to see Theo’s new place after we’re done shopping. Would you like to come as well?”  
“Yes,” said Ginny.  
“No,” said Harry.  
“Um,” Hermione continued as she spread butter on her toast, “There is a chance that Malfoy will be there, too.”  
“Okay,” said Ginny.  
“I’m _not going_ ,” said Harry.  
“You are,” Ginny assured him with a patronising pat on the back of his hand.  
And that was that.

 

*

 

Flourish and Bolts was packed with students and parents, teeming with witches and wizards young and old, _swarming_ with all manner of magical folk... and Hermione thought her heart might burst. She stood immobilized by the door, gawking and breathing it all in, and Ginny had to drag her inside.  
“You were blocking the way! Damn, Hermione... I know books get you all flustered, but –”  
“It’s not just the books,” Hermione shot her a glare, “It’s everything. All this... I mean...”  
“I know what you mean.” She squeezed the elbow she’d been using to tow her around.

With her booklist in hand, Hermione strolled among the towering shelves. She was Mary Lennox in her secret garden. She was Wordsworth among his daffodils. She was Holly Golightly at Tiffany’s.  
At one point, she paused to help a hapless looking muggleborn and his parents.  
“Are you a muggleborn, too?” the little boy asked shyly.  
“Yes,” she replied, “Yes, I am.”

 

*

 

All the seedy, unsavoury shops had been re-replaced by their original edifices. They ambled down the alley in companionable silence. Ollivander’s shop had the gleam of a place freshly renovated. Florean Fortescue’s seemed to be in the process of being mended.  
“I wonder who’s going to run it now,” Ginny mused.  
Neither of them looked at the shop with the bright orange and purple facade, all barred and boarded.

Stares and whispers followed them all around. The crowd parted for them. “ _It’s Hermione Granger!”_ she heard often enough to make her dislike her own name. Some people even pointed. She couldn’t imagine the chaos that would’ve descended had Harry not been invisible.  
“I hate this,” she grumbled.  
Ginny suppressed a smile, and she heard Harry’s snigger. It sounded horribly smug.

“So where is their damned flat?” Harry muttered in her ear after they’d reached the other end of the alley. Gringotts loomed before them, betraying no evidence that not too long ago a great, big dragon had burst out of it.  
“Huh?”  
“Nott’s place, Hermione,” Harry repeated impatiently, “Where is it?”  
“Right.” She tore her eyes away from the imposing building. “Er... Luna said she’d meet us here and – Oh! There she is. Luna. Here... Luna! Hello!”  
Dressed in the skirt Theo had bought for her and with a wreath of daisies on her head, Luna looked like a prime oddity amongst the crowd swelling around her.  
“Hullo, Hermione,” she said pleasantly, “Hullo, Ginny. Hullo, Harry.”  
An incorporeal “ _What?!”_ caused a nearby group of kids to jump and scatter.  
“How did you...” Ginny hissed, “How did you know Harry was here?”  
“I sensed him,” Luna stated casually, “Harry has a very forceful presence. Come on then.”    
 Luna led them down a small path between two shops, past a row of workshops to a small park, opposite which was a multi-storied building made of polished grey sandstone and dotted with tall arched windows.  
“Posh,” Ginny sniffed.  
“Well, what did you expect?” Harry’s disembodied voice said scathingly, “Just the sort of place prodigal pureblood would put up.”

They walked through a lobby – all shiny marble and potted plants – and into a glass lift that took them up and up...

  
Hermione was not prepared for the sight that greeted her when she walked into flat number seventy-two.  
She didn’t notice the furniture, she didn’t cast her eye about to take in the fixtures, the colour of the walls or the paintings on them; all she could do was stare at Theo and Malfoy in the centre of a vast sitting room, poised in duelling stance and snarling at each other.  
“What the _hell_ is going on?” Ginny exclaimed.

“Hermione!” Theo raced towards her, “Thank Merlin. Help me! How do you undo a permanent sticking charm?”  
“Um – wha–?”  
“ _Tell me!_ ”  
She blinked. “A _finite_ ought to do it?”  
“THAT DIDN’T WORK!” Theo bellowed. In the background, Malfoy barked a laugh.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Yes!”  
“Um... what incantation did you use to stick... whatever it is you’ve stuck?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.  
“ _I_ didn’t!” Theo wailed.  
“Oh. Only the caster can undo a permanent sticking charm.”  
Theo gnashed his teeth and spun around. “Undo it, you fucker,” he howled at Malfoy.  
“First undo the one you put on that lamp!” Malfoy retorted bitingly.  
“No!”  
“Then the wallpaper fucking stays!”

Hermione’s quickly glanced at the walls – a tasteful, innocuous cream –  
  
“Draco, I swear –”  
“Bugger off! You asked for it!”  
“Remove. It. Now.”  
“Not a chance!” Malfoy growled through his teeth.  
“It’s my bedroom, arsehole!”  
“And this is my drawing room –”  
“ _Our_ drawing room! Shared space! And I say the lamp stays!”  
“Then so does the wallpaper!”  
They were back in combat mode, knees bent and wands trained on each other.  
“How the fuck am I supposed to sleep in a room like that?” Theo demanded, shooting a hex at Malfoy.  
Nimbly, Malfoy deflected it. “Do you think I care? Sleep here then. Next to your ghastly, tacky lamp!”  
“Glittering purple snakeskin, Draco! Seriously?!”

The moment Theo uttered those words, Hermione knew she was a lost cause. She felt it in the pit of her stomach, and then it burst out of her, small and breathy, but unmistakably... a giggle.  
She slapped a hand on her mouth but it was too late. Both the combatants turned to look at her. Theo had a hilariously scandalised – borderline _hurt –_ look on his face, while Malfoy just arched his brows. One lock of his hair fell right down the middle of his forehead like a plum line, bringing to prominence the ridiculous symmetry of his features.  
From somewhere behind her, Hermione heard Harry rasp, “Glittering... purple... _snakeskin,_ ” at which Theo boomed, “Can you bloody well believe it? He’s even covered the ceiling! It’s seizure-inducing!”  
“Excellent!” Malfoy snapped, “I hope you have a sodding seizure the next time you and Lovegood are trying to bring the building down with your loud rutt–”  
“We are young, enthusiastic lovers! Just because you aren’t getting any –”  
“SILENCING CHARMS!” Malfoy roared, “Silencing charms, you boneheaded bellend!”  
“Ahh! That’s _never_ going to happen now! And you want me to sleep here in this room? Fine. I’ll sleep here. I’ll sleep here with Luna. All over your precious velvet upholstery!”  
“I’ll kill you! I’ll drag you down to the middle of Diagon Alley and publicly behead you –”  
“FIX MY ROOM!”  
“NO!”

“I THINK!” Luna burst out in a volume so unlike her norm that everybody reeled, “I think that snakeskin will be a very intriguing texture to feel against my back; much more so than velvet.”

And Hermione was off again, giggling insanely into her hand. Ginny was faring no better.  
“Dear god,” Harry groaned.  
Theo looked flabbergasted, his mouth hanging half open. But the best part of it all was, without a doubt, the expression on Malfoy’s face.

 

* * *

 

George made an appearance on Ginny’s birthday as well. He’d been calm and taciturn all through dinner, and handed Ginny a special deluxe Skiving Snackbox, which he claimed she’d absolutely need now that she was planning to go back to school.

He retired back to his room not long after that.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Hermione asked later, when it was just the two of them in Ginny’s room, “That he’s making things again?”  
“I hope so,” Ginny replied as she twirled before her mirror in a brand new white sundress.

 

Then three days later when Charlie was leaving for Romania and Mrs. Weasley was beside herself with emotion, George came down again and tossed a smart turquoise blue vest at his departing brother.  
“Fireproof, dust-repellent, and will loudly announce when you’re feeling hot and bothered. You know. Like _that_.”  
“Gosh, thanks,” Charlie drawled. He may have been trying to sound dry and sarcastic, but his grin let him down.

 

* * *

 

The day-long rain had simmered to a pleasant pitter-patter, so Hermione stowed away her big blue brolly. She was trudging alone through wet and grey London. Against the darkly monotonous city landscape full of muted silhouettes and shadowy figures, streetlamps and headlights and windows glowed like radioactive elements. The cacophony of water drizzling against the pavement, of cars and busses whizzing across the road, of blazing horns, of random, endless conversations made the air even denser.

It swept her up and carried her away... as cities often do.

There was a group of four young people in front of her, dressed in a lot of denim, and sharing a cigarette. Their bubbling laughter got drowned out by a passing double-decker, and... Hermione fell in love with the sound of its motor: The guttural purr it made, the way its wheels crunched the wet gravel underneath. 

  
“Fuck off, ya tosser!”   
The boys in front got into a playfight, and the girls laughed and rolled their eyes.  
“Chavs!”  
“Honestly!”

  
Hermione stopped at the corner of the street, stepped niftily into a telephone kiosk, and listened to the sound of her breaths in the jarring peace within. Then she made a call.

_Ring-ring... Ring-ring... Ring-ring... Ring–_  
“Hello?”  
“Hello, mum.”

They couldn’t talk for long, but it was wonderful nonetheless. Hermione stepped back out into the world feeling less remote.

 

* * *

 

For once she was glad it was raining.

Diagon Alley was crowded like mad at four in the afternoon and Hermione was grateful for having a reason to keep her hood up. Nobody could spot her hair, (twice as large thanks to the humidity,) and recognise her.  
As she made her way down the cobbled street, she noted that Fortescue’s had reopened. There was a swarm outside, and above it floated a charmed harmonica playing a whimsical tune.

  
She took the same route she’d as the last time – first to Gringotts, and down the side alley. When she knocked on the door to Theo and Malfoy’s flat, it opened of its own accord.  
“Welcome Hermione,” the door... er, _said_ , “Theodore is in the second bedroom and expecting you.”  
Hermione thanked the plain panel of dark wood and strolled down the long hallway. She was able to inspect the place this time, and she admired the elegant damask wallpaper and the intermittent, contrasting panels. She passed by the living room door, the dining room door opposite it, a bathroom, and sliding glass doors opening to a small terrace.  
At the end of the hallway were two closed doors and one that was slightly ajar, around which Hermione peeked and –

“What on earth are you doing!?”  
“Decorating,” Theo replied flippantly.  
What that explanation didn’t quite indicate was the fact that he was covering every conceivable surface in the room with large pink, orange, red, and yellow butterflies.  
“Theo,” Hermione breathed in horror, “Have you lost your mind?”  
“Nope,” he stated decisively as he placed a red butterfly on top of a bedpost, “He had it coming.”  
“Are you using perman–”  
“–ent sticking charms? But of course.”  
Malfoy’s room looked like a little girl’s dream. ...A not completely sane little girl. His bookshelves and his carpet were covered. His stylish mahogany desk was covered. His beautiful grand piano was covered. His comfortable looking settee was covered. Hermione Granger was standing in Draco Malfoy’s bedroom, and that actually _wasn’t_ the most absurd part of the situation.  
She groaned loudly, and Theo blinked up at her from where he was working by the bed. “What’s wrong?”  
“What’s wrong? He’ll murder you.”  
“Nah,” he scoffed, planting butterflies across the headboard.  
“This is so _stupid._ ” She pinched the bridge of her nose.  
“It’ll force him to fix my walls. I think it’s brilliant.”  
“ _You’re_ so stupid.”  
He placed a pink butterfly on Malfoy’s bedside lamp and sniffed. “I am not.”  
“What if he walks in right now?”  
“He won’t,” Theo said confidently, admiring the yellow-orange-pink-yellow-orange-pink sequence he had arranged on Malfoy's side table, “He’s visiting Narcissa, and he’s meeting your Gryffindor lads for drinks at the Leaky, after. He isn’t going to see this till late at night.” He paused to grin wickedly. “And he’ll be drunk off his arse.”  
“It was nice knowing you,” Hermione muttered weakly.  
“Have you so little faith in me? Ouch.”  
“You’ll be saying a lot worse than _ouch_ soon enough.”  
“Pshaw.” Theo waved away her concerns merrily. “Come here and tell me if this spot needs more pink.”  
“I will have absolutely nothing to do with this madne–”  
“Yes, more pink. Definitely more pink. There can never be enough pink.”

 

* * *

 

  
By the third week of August, the rain had intensified. Watching it thunder and pour from inside the burrow while drinking rich hot chocolate was an agreeable way to pass some time. Hermione was alone in the kitchen, and she’d dragged a chair to the open door so she could bask in the fresh petrichor.

“Have you seen Ginny and Harry?”  
“Hmm?” Hermione looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Weasley.  
“Ginny and Harry. Would you happen to know where they are? I asked Ron and he didn’t know.”  
Ginny and Harry were locked up in Charlie’s now vacant room. “I haven’t seen them.”  
“Oh,” Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands. There was so much grey in her hair that hadn’t been there before.  
“Will you sit with me?” Hermione enquired, “And would you like some cocoa?”  
“I–” she blinked, “I – yes – thank you, dear. That sounds lovely.”

Once they were settled Mrs. Weasley asked to hear about the details about her trip to Australia. Hermione painted a pretty picture: A watercolour beach landscape, with a laughing woman and man with wild hair. It resonated oddly well with the rain and fresh greenery outside, and swirled sweetly through the decadent beverages they sipped on. Mrs. Weasley smiled as Hermione spoke and crinkles formed at the corners of her faraway eyes.

 

*

 

The absolute second the rain stopped a different kind of thundering erupted. Harry, Ron, and Ginny stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen.  
“Well, _there_ you are!” Mrs. Weasley belted.  
“No time to talk, mum!” Ginny sang, “We’re going to play quidditch.”

They were gone as suddenly and as boisterously as they’d arrived.  
“Are you going to join them?”  
“Certainly not!” Hermione proclaimed, “More cocoa?”  
And so they sat with freshly topped mugs, making empty conversation.

 

* * *

 

  
Wet soil squelched under the weight of every step she took. The bottoms of her trainers were caked with mud. And she felt good.

Up three hills and back down; she’d had a good run that evening. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it free. A long shower was the need of the hour. She rolled her neck anticipating the satisfaction of feeling warm water on her skin.

But when she stepped into the Burrow all her plans turned to dust. Mrs. Weasley was sitting at the kitchen table crying, and Ginny was curled into her side. Ron was pacing by the fireplace, looking ill. Instantly, Hermione was gripped by an appalling, all-consuming terror that rooted her feet to the ground. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly around heavy and escalated breaths.  
Harry walked around the table and murmured into her ear, “It’s George. He’s gone.”  
“ _What?!_ ” she hissed, her heart juddered to a stop.  
“When Mrs. Weasley went to give him tea, his door was open and he wasn’t there. That was over an hour ago.”  
“Oh god. But... the clock...”  
“Just says he’s travelling.” Harry inhaled deeply, his face carefully blank as it usually got when he was highly stressed, “Mr. Weasley and Percy went to the Ministry to get a search party together. Bill’s scouting Diagon. There’s nothing else we can do.”  
“Has anyone spoken to Lee or Angelina?”  
“Yeah. They don’t know anything. But they’re looking around too.”  
Hermione gnawed at her lip as her eyes flickered back to Mrs. Weasley and Ginny. “Can’t the Ministry track him somehow? They must –”  
“I dunno,” Harry muttered.

Just then, the fireplace let out a loud _whoosh_ , and Charlie burst into the room.  
“Just got dad’s owl! Have you found him?” he exclaimed.  
“No,” Ron replied hoarsely, as Mrs Weasley’s wails redoubled.  
“Shit,” Charlie spat, and marched over to kneel on the floor by his mother.

The next time the fireplace glowed green, it was Bill. He didn’t say a word; simply shook his head gravely.

  
For twenty minutes they all existed there, not speaking, stewing in anxiety until Ron exploded: “Fuck this. This is mad, just sitting here. Let’s _go_ and look for him!”  
“The Aurors are on it, Ron,” Bill said with forced calm.  
“I don’t care! We can’t just –”  
The fireplace roared to life. And it was George.  
A high-pitched, unearthly wail tore out of Mrs. Weasley’s throat. “YOU!” she shrieked, “You – where – oh, _you_!”  
“Are you alright?” Bill asked urgently, rushing towards him.  
The remaining five merely stared at him with amazement. He stared back, blinking owlishly from beneath his hood.  
“I’m fine?” he replied tilting his head.  
“Where were you?” Ginny demanded angrily, “You don’t come out of your room for months – and then you disappear, just like that, without saying a word!”  
“Er, sorry?”  
“SORRY!” At least four different voices echoed the word with incredulous anger.  
“Are you insane?” Ron sputtered, “You just went off and –”  
“I went to the shop. Our... _my_... shop.”  
“No you didn’t,” Bill snapped, “I checked.”  
George shrugged. “We must have missed each other. I was there. You can check with Verity if you’d like.”  
“Who’s – what – _damn it_ ,” Bill growled, “I’d better go tell Kingsley to call off the Aurors.”  
He stalked off and flooed away.  
“What?” George asked the room at large that was eyeing him closely.  
“What’d you go to the shop for?” Charles posed carefully.  
“Well, it’s high time I got it going again, yeah?”  
“Oh,” Ginny gasped softly, and she was the only one who was able to muster a reaction. Hermione could see George seizing up, uncomfortable under such strong scrutiny.  
“Yeah, alright then,” he garbled, “If that’s all....”

He pulled back his hood and Mrs. Weasley screamed.  
“George! Georgie! Oh, but what is _that_?!”  
_That_ was what stood in place of the once gaping hole at the side of George’s head. _That_ was a prosthetic ear of some kind. _That_ was a bright and gleaming gold.  
“Holy shite!” Ron cried.  
“I like it,” George muttered stonily. The light from the candle on the kitchen table lit the shell of his new ear in the most dazzling way.  
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Weasley moaned with dismay, “Let me take you to Mungo’s. They’ll fix you a nice, very real looking one and –”  
“No, thank you.”    
“George, please –”  
“I _like_ it,” he ground out.  
Charlie guffawed, “You know what? So do I.”  
“Honestly, Charlie, it’s not –”  
“George Weasley,” Ginny said with pomp, “Roguish buccaneer. Forget having a gold earring, he has a gold ear.”  
Mrs. Weasley’s mouth thinned with disapproval, but Hermione found herself speaking before she could stop herself.  
“There was a Danish astronomer called Tycho who lost his nose in a duel, and he replaced it with a solid gold one. I believe he was very popular amongst the lady folk.”  
As George’s eyes flitted across the room’s occupants, a slow smile spread across his face. “And I’ll bet this chap Tycho wasn’t half as good looking as I am.”  
“Oh, of course not,” Hermione beamed back.

A few minutes later, when George’s ear was catching the light of the setting sun, Mr. Weasley, Bill, and Percy returned. The first let his head fall into his hands, the second said, “Cool,” and the third walked into a chair.

 

*

 

A little while later after they’d all eaten, Hermione and Harry went out for a walk around the garden, so that the Weasleys may have some time to themselves. George’s sudden decision to get back among the living had given his entire family a new lease on life.

“Not exactly sudden though, is it?” Harry said, “He’d been locked in his room for so long... he must have gone through things. Worked it out.”  
“All on his own?”  
Harry simply shrugged... but then he was used to pushing through hard times by himself. George had never been alone; not since the day he was born.

They strolled around the house, and to the nearest pond where patches of reflected sky poked through a thick layer of moss. There were so many clouds hanging above them... surely it was bound to rain again soon.

“Training’s going to start next week,” said Harry.  
“Are you looking forward to it?”  
“Yes. Oh fuck, yes. Just sitting around has been... you know.” He made a face and turned his eyes heavenwards.  
“I know,” Hermione agreed.  
“I’ve been thinking,” he hedged, “That I want to move out of here. I can’t keep expecting the Weasley’s to put me up.”  
“They want you here,” she chided, “You know that. You’re family.”  
He sighed and looked at her. His hands went to perform their habitual tic of rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. But I want my own place. I mean, I _have_ my own place. I think it’s time that I –”  
“Oh my god, Grimmauld Place!”  
“Er, yes, I–”  
“We have to go there!” Hermione gazed at him with wide-eyed consternation.  
“ _Yes,_ that’s what I’m –”  
“No – Harry – it’s Phineas Nigellus! He’s still in my bag!”  
His mouth and eyes rounded in slow motion, and then he was in hysterics.  
“It’s not _that_ funny!” Hermione cried.  
“It is! It’s – it’s – been a _year!_ ” Harry wheezed, “He’s been trapped in your bag for a whole sodding year!”  
Hermione huffed, “Well it’s not like he doesn’t have other portraits he can visit!”  
“Not in his precious ancestral home he doesn’t!” Harry sagged forward, pressing his palms against his ribs, “God, he must be so furious.”  
“Yes, well,” Hermione began, but she was interrupted by the appearance of a vast, gleaming patronus in the shape of a manta ray.  
It spoke in the voice of Theo: “ _Help me. Quickly. Wards in the living room are down; apparate right in. Please, please, hurry._ ”  
Harry whispered something in shock, and Hermione didn’t bother saying anything back. She grabbed his wrist and spun on the spot.

 

*

 

When they appeared inside the large drawing room, they found Malfoy sitting in an armchair, legs stretched out and loosely crossed at the ankles, ostensibly reading. He didn’t look up at all, even though their arrival had been a loud one, and merely said, “He’s in his room.”  
And then one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.  
_Jesus_. How had she ended up getting so involved in this ridiculous, childish prank-war they had going? She groaned, bracing herself to see something undoubtedly preposterous, and set off down the hallway. Harry followed. “What is happening?”  
“I don’t have the energy or the words to explain it,” Hermione grumbled.

So she’d prepared herself, right? She’d been ready for anything. Oh, but not this: She opened the door to Theo’s room, and a gush of air left her lungs to the tune of, “ _holy fuck_.”  
His room was thick with shimmering silver spangled ropes. They fell from the ceiling to the floor like vines; there had to be at least sixty, and they clashed hideously with the glittery, scaly paper covering his walls. Theo was in the centre of the room, tangled up in a bunch of them, suspended a few feet above the floor. His arms were pulled taut and away from him, so despite having his wand in his hand, it was pointing stupidly towards the ceiling. His legs, in contrast, were curled and pressed against his stomach in a way that could not possibly be comfortable.  
“Help. Me.” he croaked.  
“Damn,” Harry breathed, and he ran his fingers down one rope –  
“POTTER NOOOooooo!”  
In an instant, there were ten more ropes around them.  
“You twat!” Theo growled, “They’ve got the Lestrange vault curse thing on them!”  
“Well you could’ve mentioned that!” Harry spat and backed out of the room.  
“As you can see, I’m a bit...”  
“Caught up?”  
“Oh, hardy har, Hermione. GET ME OUT OF THESE, WILL YOU, _PLEASE._ ”  
  Hermione sighed for the enth time and slipped out Bellatrix’s wand and cast a repelling charm on herself. It was effective – the twinkling ropes didn’t touch her and she managed to get to Theo to cast the same charm on him. He slipped through the silvery snarl.  
“Oh, look,” Hermione grinned, “I’ve un- _Nott_ -ed you.”  
He glowered, “Do I look like I’m in the mood for – Argh! I’m in the mood to skin a fucking blond wankstain. DRACO!”  
He flew out of the room like a vengeful demon, and the iridescent ropes went berserk, first swinging away from him... then swinging back into place... then swinging away again when Hermione ran after him.

  
Back in the living room, Theo (red-faced, furious,) and Malfoy (completely aloof,) were facing off.  
“Too far, Draco!”  
“I don’t see how it was any worse than the butterflies.”  
(“Butterflies?” Harry asked in an undertone. Hermione rolled her eyes.)  
“I was _stuck_! They fucking grabbed me!”  
“Ah yes...” Malfoy looked down his nose at Theo, “How did you escape?” His eyes did the quickest of darts towards Hermione.  
“Bugger off! If you think you’re going to get away with this –”  
“Sure, sure,” Malfoy drawled, “I think you should be more concerned about the fact that you can’t enter your room anymore.”  
“Ha! Unfortunately, you git, you didn’t make those things immune to repelling charms, and –”  
Malfoy frowned softly, “Didn’t I?”  
“...No! And just you wait, you piece of shit, I’m going to – Hey! Draco? Where are you – _Oi._ NO! COME BACK HERE..... DON’T YOU DARE.......... DRACO.......... DRACO..........!”

  
Left alone, Hermione and Harry listened to the slow fade of thundering footsteps and yelling.  
With utmost tiredness, Harry whimpered. “Are we going to –”  
“Leave?” Hermione completed, “Yes.”  
“Oh thank fu–”  
He disapparated.

 

* * *

 

On a damp and drizzly Sunday morning, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Bill apparated to 12, Grimmauld Place. Staring at its scuffed, black front door, Hermione had a sudden flashback of the awful panic she’d felt when she’d accidentally brought a small army of Death Eater’s here.

...The fingers gripping her robes... Harry’s hand in hers, slick with sweat... having to cast the quickest of spells... she remembered the dense forest... Ron writhing on the floor, his blood _everywhere..._

She shuddered.

Ron had refused to go along with them when they’d asked. “No thanks,” he’d grunted coldly, his eyes fixed on Hermione. It could be said that the time after they’d escaped from the Ministry was when the fissure in their relationship had started to grow. The locket-horcrux, Ron’s burgeoning resentment, the way he’d abandoned them –  
But that was all over now. They were here to launch a new chapter in Harry’s life. She took a deep breath and shoved away old memories as Bill pushed open the door.  
“Stand back, all of you,” he instructed, “Mad-Eye’s curses are painfully complex; this will take a while.

So while Bill got rid of the tongue-tying curse and dust-bunny Dumbledore, the three of them sat on the steps and watched puddles form.  
How scared they’d been when they were taking shelter here! Apparating under the invisibility cloak, peeking out from behind curtains at this very view: Watching Death Eaters standing by the fence that was now covered in ivy.  
Hermione looked at Harry from the corner of her eye and wondered what he was thinking about.

“All done!” Bill called from inside.

They stepped in cautiously; Hermione’s heart was trouncing in her chest as her mind assaulted her with visuals: A hurt and angry Lupin storming away after his row with Harry... Fred and George being chastised by their mother for doing magic all over the place... Tonks with a pig’s snout at the dinner table... Sirius, lounging broodily in a poufy, moth-eaten chair... Snape stalking down the halls with arms full of parchments and secrets.  
She registered Ginny’s soft, “ _wow!_ ” before she had the presence of mind to understand what they were looking at. But when she did, her wonder was much like her friend’s. The bleak old house was positively gleaming. Gone was the overpowering stale, musty, dusty smell – the air had a hint of lemon and pine. The gas lamps were all lit, and the crystal chandelier above glittered like diamonds made of fire. The grimy curtain that used to cover Walburga Black’s portrait had been replaced with royal blue silk.     
“Blimey!” Harry intoned.  
“Master has returned!”  
They looked at the door leading to the dining room, and there was Kreacher, wrapped in a perfectly pressed linen sheet.  
“Kreacher, the place looks amazing!” Hermione gushed, smiling toothily at the elf that regarded her sourly.  
He did, nonetheless, spit out an acidic, “Thank you, miss,” before turning back to Harry and bowing. “Kreacher has been waiting for Master Harry Potter for months. Rooms have been prepared for you, Master, and for your...” (He paused, possibly to remind himself that blood slurs were not nice,) “...Friends.”  
“Thanks, Kreacher!” Harry cheered, “This is great! Hey... you wouldn’t happen to have any walnut cake lying around, would you?”  
Hermione suppressed a growl at the sheer _presumption_ , but of course Kreacher nodded and led them into the dining room.

 

*

 

“You do it.”  
“What?! Why?”  
“Please, Harry!”  
“You’re the one who shoved him into your bag!”  
“And you’re the one who said it was brilliant of me to do so!”  
“No, actually, I’m quite sure it was Ron who said that.”  
“ _Haaaarryyyyy!_ ”  
“Nope.”  
“I hate you.”

“I’ll do it!” Ginny snapped, yanking Hermione’s bag away. She set it on the (fluffy, perfectly clean and carpeted,) floor, and as she rummaged about with her entire arm inside the bag, Hermione and Harry exchanged a sheepish look. “Ah! There it is!”  
The framed canvas Ginny drew out was... empty.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Harry muttered after they’d put it back up on the wall.  
“I hope he returns in the middle of the night and pitches a fit.”  
“Well, I’ll be sure to send you a howler so that you won’t miss out.”  
Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.  
“You know I will,” Harry threatened, “And of course I’ll ask my dear new owl _Herms_ to –”  
“If you don’t change his name, Harry, I’ll –”  
“I think it’s a hoot,” Ginny trilled with a daft grin.

They climbed further up the stairs to explore the bedrooms, passing by those awful mounted House-Elf heads.  
“Definitely getting rid of those,” Harry grunted softly.

 

* * *

 

Harry was all packed up and ready to leave the Burrow early next day, when Ron descended with a trunk in tow, unceremoniously announcing that he was going to live with Harry.  
“Auror trainees have mad work hours, it just makes sense... Oh come now, mum, please don’t cry! Bloody hell, s’not like I’m moving to Tibet!”

  
Mrs. Weasley hadn’t stopped crying since. To put that into perspective, it was now seven in the evening. Hermione and Ginny were the only ones in the house with her.    
“For Godric’s sake, they said they’ll visit every weekend!” Ginny cried with exasperation as they sat to eat. Mrs. Weasley was diluting her stew with tears, and that was tragic as it was rather excellent stew.  
“Oh, I know!” she blubbered, “I’m being silly. But once they start work, I just know I’ll barely get to see them. Charlie’s gone, Bill has his own life, you and Hermione are going off to Hogwarts... I’ll just... I’m going to be alone... George has his shop... Arthur and Percy have the Ministry...”  
“Oh mum,” Ginny whispered, and flew around the table to her side, “I don’t _have_ to go –”  
“Yes, you do!” Mrs. Weasley barked forcefully. She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes. “You have to go finish your schooling, young lady. Don’t go thinking I resent any one of you for having things to do! The only thing keeping me sane is seeing you move on with your lives! I want you to be happy and productive – all of you. Don’t pay attention to this, dear... I’m an old woman now. Weak.”  
“You are the absolute farthest thing from weak!” Ginny sputtered, “If we’re moving on, it’s all thanks to the strength we draw from you!”  
“Oh!” Mrs. Weasley broke into a fresh bout of tears.

Hermione twisted her napkin tightly between her fingers. She wanted so desperately to slip away, but there was no way to do so without making a ruckus and disturbing the moment. It reminded her so much of her talk with mum in her garden, and her conversation with dad on the jetty. It was so raw, so personal, and she felt like a shameless voyeur, sitting there and staring down at her lap.

 

* * *

 

  
How had the month already gone by?

Hermione was having one of those too-frequent _bloody-hell-what-is-my-life,_ mind-boggling, demi-existential crises. Would the next year in school be about nothing but reminders of the final battle? Would she find herself eating toast in the Great Hall at the exact spot where someone’s dead body had lain? Would she spend the entire time running away from ghosts of the past, fighting, grasping, and begging for some composure?  
How would she be able to think about transfiguration in a room where blood might still linger in the dirt between the stones? Could she learn to perform brand new magic with a wand that had flayed her inside and out, and look at stars from a tower above which she couldn’t _not_ picture a terrible snake-tongued skull?

  
Her school books were in a pile by her open trunk, and it was the first time ever that she hadn’t read them all before term had begun. She hadn’t even flipped through them. She hadn’t even cracked them open.

  
But she would. She’d devour them and absorb every word, and pour it all out onto her exam parchments. She’d talk about transfiguration, and perform brand new magic because that’s what it was all about, wasn’t it: The great, strenuous task of persevering, ‘IN SPITE OF’. Overcoming, or whatever.  
It got George back into the shop that he’d never be able to separate from memories of his twin, and it got Harry to move into the house where he’d lived as a miserable fugitive, and where his beloved godfather had lived as a miserable fugitive. A brave lot from Dumbledore’s Army was going back to Hogwarts after suffering through unrelenting torture and trauma within those verysame walls.  
Were they proving a point to the universe, or to themselves? Hermione didn’t know. All she knew was that something was simmering inside her – an enormously confusing concoction of gristly, barbed fear and softer, lighter anticipation. She fell into a mad conflux of emotions.  
_This too shall pass?  
    –_ Can it get better _–  
–_ Will it get worse _–_

With palms pressed tightly against her eyes she let stars explode behind her lids and wondered if she’d actually really grown in this past year of dreadful chaos. It was true that she sometimes couldn’t recognise herself... but was it growth?  
_All her growth was the conveying of a corpse of hope._  
She dragged the corpse and packed it along with her books.

 

* * *

 


	47. Forty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short, transitional chapter.   
> I'm terribly sorry for not replying to any of your reviews for the last chapter - my plate is extremely full at the moment. I'm going to use whatever free time I have to write, and I think you might like updates over PMs?

  
There was a crowd and there was conversation; there were students of all ages and families of all sizes. Superficially, nothing was amiss – platform nine and three quarters looked as it always had, year after year.

Everything was different.

And it wasn’t because Hermione hadn’t had her parents drive her to the station, or because there was only George and no Fred, or because she saw fewer familiar faces than usual. It was the atmosphere, oppressive with its overriding heaviness. Parents held their children for longer.

The last time Hermione was here, she’d been plagued by a certain hyper-awareness and foreboding. This time she felt abstracted and disassociated.

The Hogwarts Express fizzled and hissed as it came to a gradual stop, its chrome red body and gleaming windows reflected the hundreds of faces that watched its arrival.   
“It’s going to be so strange,” Hermione muttered, “Getting on board without you and Ron.”   
Harry half-smiled in a rueful manner. “Look at it this way – there’ll be no twats around to distract you from your studies.”   
As if on cue, a voice speared through the multitude: “Hi there, buddy!”   
“Hello, Theo,” Hermione said, biting her lip as Harry laughed, “Luna. How’s your father?”   
“Much better,” Luna replied happily, “He’s marrying his nurse.”   
“ _What?!_ ” Hermione, Harry, and Ginny, (who’d just escaped from her mother’s clutches,) cried. Theo stared upwards and pursed his lips, looking determined to say _nothing._   
“He’s marrying his nurse,” Luna repeated her words extremely slowly. “Oh look, it’s Neville!”   
Indeed it was, and the intriguing subject of Xenophilius’ great love affair was unceremoniously and unfortunately dropped. Instead, they stood around quietly and listened to Neville’s grandmother’s acidic monologue against muggle fashion. (“What is that scrap of cloth she’s wearing? A skirt! You call that a skirt?”)

Therefore - and quite understandably - it came as no little relief when the warning bell sounded and it was time for them to climb aboard.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Her mind was full of Ron’s half-arsed half-wave, Mrs. Weasley’s highly dramatic weeping, and Harry’s long parting hug. She blindly followed Theo down the train, passing by open compartment doors with students stowing away their luggage and chattering indistinguishably. It was a strange thing to be witnessing while only partly paying attention: It was like she was standing still, unmoving, and flashes of random people’s lives were flying past her. In one compartment, four first years were meeting for the first time... perhaps they’d become friends for life. In another, three Ravenclaws and a Slytherin were arguing about charms. In yet another, an amorous couple was reuniting. Further on, there were two strangers, silently staring out the window. She witnessed beginnings and middles, friendships and love, excitement and quietude.... the whole glorious medley of life like a series of Edward Hopper paintings.

  
They were walking in line, with Neville in the lead, followed by Luna, Theo, Hermione, and finally Ginny who had receded into herself much like Hermione had.

 

“Here we are!” Neville declared eventually, coming to a stop.   
Hermione emerged from her stupor like a gopher bursting out of the soil.

Dean greeted them cheerfully when they entered the cabin, smiling warmly at them all one by one. He was stretched across the entire length of one row of seats, so Theo returned his salutation by knocking his feet to the ground.   
On the opposite row, by the seat closest to the window, with his hair artfully dishevelled and robes loose around his neck was Malfoy. He nodded at Luna, sneered at Theo, and ignored Hermione entirely, and nodded once again at Ginny.   
He said to Neville, “Where’s your crown, Longbottom? And what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in your special, gilded, ruby studded head boy cabin?”   
“No thanks,” Neville replied as he shoved his trunk under the bench.   
“You don’t sound bitter at all,” Theo chirruped with glee, and when Malfoy sneered at him again, he beamed. “Dear me, Draco. Are you still sulking?”   
“Fuck off.”   
“Aw, come on. It’s just a harmless _little_ singing fountain in the middle of your room! I think it looks lovely with all those butterflies fluttering around it.”   
Malfoy set his jaw and glared out the window, ignoring Theo... and everybody else who’d begun to laugh.   
“It’s such an enchanting scene, I tell you,” Theo went on, “And don’t you just love how it actually _never_ stops singing? It was a tricky charm to master... but I did it. For you.”   
“What’s it singing?” Dean asked as he gasped with laughter.   
Theo’s answering smile was angelic. “Bananas in Pyjamas.”

 

*  
  


 

The countryside zipped by in broad strokes of green and grey, the landscape thick and lush with rain. Little drops struck against the window, splattering like tiny water balloons.   
The atmosphere inside the compartment was one of ease. Luna, Neville, Theo and Ginny were playing gobstones, (Luna’s... er... “improved” version,) as Dean cheered them on. Malfoy was still staring unwaveringly outside, and Hermione lost herself in her new transfiguration text book.   
_Chapter One: Advanced Human Transfiguration._   
Well, she’d successfully altered Ron’s appearance before their Gringott’s break-in. She supposed she’d be able to manage that.

“Hey,” she heard in her ear, and looked up into Dean’s smiling face.   
“Yes?”   
His smile widened. “Nothing. You just looked so much like... _you_ , you know?”   
“Hermione Granger reading a book, you mean?”   
“Exactly. It’s comforting.”   
“Oh, I don’t know,” Theo muttered without looking away from the little rocks in front of him, “I think I prefer the sight of Hermione screaming bloody murder from the back of a blind dragon.”   
(“Can’t believe you made me sit that one out,” Dean grumbled.)   
“Me?” Hermione sputtered, “ _I_ was screaming?”   
“Yes, you were,” Theo informed her.   
“Was I the one raving about ending up in Poland?”   
“ _Finland_.”   
“Aha!” She tapped him on the arm with her book, and he acted as though she had brutally battered him.   
And she loved him for it. She loved them all for it, actually; that they could sit there after everything, and make inane jokes about it all.

  
(“Oi!” Neville cried, pointing at Theo, “That’s cheating you lousy Slytherin! Watch it! Don’t you know I’m a powerful, world famous snake-slayer?”)

  
As she chuckled, Hermione’s eyes wandered to the lone quiet member of their congregation. The dense cloud cover outside had rendered reflective the glass before him; and Malfoy was watching them. She might have believed that he was peering through the mirror image, but then their gazes met. Her laughter died, and she blinked... and when her eyes reopened he’d looked away.   
She shook her head, and turned her attention back to Dean. “So why isn’t Seamus here?”   
“His grandmother died.”   
“Oh my! I’m sorry to hear that.”   
“Ha,” Dean barked, “You’d be the only one. Nasty old shrew, she was. Fucking batty, bitter old crone.”   
“I think that’s how they make all grandmothers,” Neville mused idly.   
“But she did one good thing before copping it,” Dean went on.   
“And what’s that?” Hermione asked.   
“She left him a mountain of galleons.”   
“That’s nice.”

  
(“Stop. Cheating. Nott.” Ginny growled.   
“I am not! Oh. Heh. I am Nott. That never gets old.”)

  
“Bugger’s over the moon.”   
“Has he any plans for this fortune?”

  
(“Luna, my star, tell these horrible people that I am not a cheater.”   
“As the official creator of Gobgood Lovestones, I hereby declare that Theo is not a cheater.”   
“YOU’RE A CHEATER, TOO!”)

  
“Yeah. He’s bought a pub.”   
Hermione was laughing again. “That’s just so... so...”   
“So _Seamus_?”   
“God, yes!”   
Dean sniggered, “Well he’s completely obsessed with making it perfect. Obviously, N.E.W.T.’s and all that shite is hardly as important.”   
“What’s it called then?”   
“Finnigan’s.”   
“Of course.”   
“I mean... what else could it be? He wants me to paint a mural over the Christmas hols.”   
“That’s wonderful!” Hermione exclaimed, “Any ideas?”   
“A Toulouse-Lautrec Moulin Rouge sort of scene. But with Leprechauns.” 

 

* * *

 

  
Ginny had looped her arm around Hermione’s as they strolled towards the carriages that would take them to the castle. When they stepped out from under the station’s roof, Hermione drew out Bellatrix’s wand and cast a quick water repelling charm over the both of them. 

“Thanks,” Ginny said and peered upwards, “I really hope this bloody rain stops before quidditch practice begins.”   
“Who’s the captain this year?” Hermione asked, trying to sound like she cared.   
“Demelza,” Ginny replied loftily, and her eye twitched.

 

Thestrals stood in a long line, scuffing the ground with their hooves and shaking their giant wings.   
“Over here!” Neville shouted, waving them over to a carriage, but Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and jogged off in the other direction. When she’d reached the Thestral with the oddly short tail, it snorted affectionately and nuzzled her hand.   
“Hello,” she whispered as she ran her fingers down the silky mane that she’d once clung to for dear life, “How are you?”   
The thestral responded with another expulsion of air.   
“I hardly think about that night anymore,” she told it, “So much happened after –”

“What _are_ you doing?”    
Hermione looked irritably over her shoulder. “Catching up,” she snapped.   
“With a thestral?” Theo clarified.   
“I look forward to it every year, too,” Luna cut in happily, “They’re such lovely company.”   
Hermione cocked a brow at Theo, daring him to say something now.   
“Oh, let’s just get in,” he mumbled, taking Luna’s hand and pulling her into a coach. Hermione gave her thestral a parting pat and followed.

...She immediately wished she’d gone back to where Neville and Ginny were.

  
Of course, Theo and Luna sat side by side, so it left her to take the seat next to Malfoy. Save for a barely noticeable huff, he didn’t react at all.   
They rode in silence, looking out at Hogsmeade and the evening sky. Like Diagon, every building here had been restored, and that old, quaint, rustic charm of the village was right back to what it once was. But there was no erasing the visions that Hermione’s brain superimposed upon the scene: Of apparating with Harry under the cloak, of running from Death Eaters, of Aberforth, and Neville’s scarred face.   
Closer and closer they got to Hogwarts; the beat of the Thestrals’ hooves against the ground was the rhythm of Hermione’s heart... and they accelerated in tandem. The rickety motion of their vehicle racing over cobbled streets jangled her no worse than the convulsing of her soul. She took in big gulps of rain-fresh air and peeked over at the opposite seats. Light from the streetlamps outside was sweeping over Theo and Luna’s faces periodically, revealing their strained expressions. She didn’t care to look at Malfoy; it was bad enough that most of the tension inside that small space seemed to be radiating from him. But before she looked back out, she did, from the extreme corner of her eye, notice that his hands were closed in tight fists on his knees.

  
Phoenix analogies were trite, particularly in this context, so Hermione actively _did not think_ that Hogwarts rose like one from the horizon. She _did not_ think back to its crumbled, broken _..._ ashy... state, and marvel at how sturdy and whole it now looked.   
While the castle did look spectacular, it wasn’t like seeing it again for the first time. Yet again, a ghostly film appeared before her vision and she saw fiendfire. She heard explosions, and walls caving in. The sizzle of a curse that just flew by her ear. Percy’s cry of _no no no_ , Malfoy saying _Crabbe_ , Hagrid being carried away by giant spiders, Greyback on Lavender, _Harry! NO! Harry!_ Bellatrix raising her wand at Theo –

She breathed out and it broke into a sob. What the hell... she was actually crying. She blinked hard – once, twice, thrice – and after the teary layer had gone from her eyes, she forced herself to look at the castle; she forced herself to see the present. Every window was lit and glowing.   
They neared the grounds where the Whomping Willow’s twisty branches stuck out against everything, as though paralysed in the middle of a feral dance. She turned to look at the other side to see that familiar column of smoke that would be leaking out of Hagrid’s hut. What she was confronted with instead was Malfoy’s profile, blanched and on edge. The bright lights emitting from the castle had given him a thin golden outline. Hermione followed the line down his face and throat and robes, to the space on the seat between them, finally reaching her own hands. They were clasped together tightly, pale and trembling. She heard a small whimper and looked up to see Luna bury her face into Theo’s neck, and he put his arm around her and sighed. His eyes found Hermione and they seemed to ask, _are we ready for this_ , and Hermione stared back. She had no idea what her face was telling him – she had no idea what to think of his question – but he would read and understand what she was feeling anyway. He always did. 

As their carriage slowed, some part of its mechanism creaked. They were well in the grounds, and the main entrance to Hogwarts, that large glowing archway, was the light at the end of her tunnel vision.   
_Clip clop clip clop clip clop_  
They were in the courtyard where Harry’s believed to be dead body had lain. Ginny’s awful cry, Hagrid’s anguished sobs, Voldemort’s sick delight all echoed in her ears. And then they came to a stop. For a moment, none of them moved. Hermione and Theo looked at each other again and –   
_Are we ready for this?  
We have to be.  _

Theo was the first to disembark, and he held out his hand to help Luna and Hermione down. They were soon enough joined by Neville, Ginny, Dean... and Ernie Macmillan, who shook everybody’s hands like he was going to solicit them for votes.   
“Difficult business isn’t it, coming back?” he muttered, “Yes, indeed. Quite difficult. Although I must commend those responsible for rebuilding the old place...”   
He continued to ramble as he walked, and Hermione hung back so that she wouldn’t have to listen, (and apparently, Theo, Luna, Ginny, and Malfoy had had the same brilliant idea.) She watched the backs of her friends as they trundled down the pathway, slowly getting swallowed up by the luminousity emitting from the castle. She inhaled deeply, and it was like her lungs where crumpled paper bags that crackled as they filled with air.   
“Come on,” she whispered to Ginny who’d been staring at the spot where Harry had lain. “Come on.”

 

Obviously, there had been many poignant, heavy instances in Hermione’s crazy life – instances she could recall in high detail and in saturated Technicolor. The kind of moments when time slowed so every second was embossed onto her mind, reshaping her cerebral crevices so her brain was like the wall reliefs in Buddhist temples, telling the story of her life in images.   
...She was far from the enlightened one.   
But anyway, she lived another poignant, heavy instance as she climbed up the steps to the entrance hall. Step one: The stones under her feet felt solid and lumpy, like her heart that had jumped up into her throat.   
Step two: The insides of the hall became clearer as her eyes got accustomed to the dazzling light.   
Step three: The polished wooden doors were on either side of her like arms open for an embrace. She could see the shining marble banister of the grand staircase that had been decimated during the battle.

And then she was inside.   
Every occupant of every painting was standing and watching. Every torch was blazing, and every gem in the house point hour glasses was glinting. Hermione’s vision swam again, but she shook her head before another flashback could assault her. A large hand squeezed her arm, and she turned to offer Theo a tight smile.   
_We’re ready, right?  
Right._

 

The Great Hall was quiet. That itself threw Hermione off completely. Her group appeared to be one of the last to arrive, and this time, she couldn’t stave off the influx of memories. That terrifying, awful row of dead across the centre of this room...   
The room that was full of floating candles hovering under an open sky; that had long wooden tables and benches and colourful banners and tall bronze candelabras.   
No dead bodies.   
No dead bodies.   
No dead bodies.    
She was shaking as she made her way to the Gryffindor table, seating herself between Neville and Ginny. She watched Luna float over to the Ravenclaw table after pressing a kiss on Theo’s cheek. Theo and Malfoy walked stiffly across the room to the Slytherin table.   
Hermione tracked and noted other faces from her year: Zabini, Greengrass, and Tracy Davis. Padma, Michael, Anthony, Terry, Lisa, and Mandy. Ernie, Hannah, Susan, and Justin.    
...Parvati wasn’t there. Would Hermione be alone in her dorm? To think she’d longed for that every year...

From the teacher’s table, Hagrid waved at her. Professor Slughorn had busied himself with a bottle of wine, but every other professor was watching their students with absolute focus. A few had eyes too bright. Madam Pomfrey was dabbing at hers with a handkerchief. Trelawney was outright bawling.   
And at the centre, Professor McGonagall sat with her back straight, and it looked completely wrong for that seat to be occupied by anyone but a towering man with a long white beard. Hermione hadn’t thought about Dumbledore for quite some time... and now that she did, she realised that the edge of bitterness hadn’t faded yet; honestly, she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him. Then there was the absence of Snape – another jarring anomaly. The table looked incomplete without his sallow, sneering face. He’d been the most unpleasant shit of a man, who’d surrendered himself for the love of a dead woman.   
The self-appointed puppet master was the epitome of Gryffindor-ness. The Slytherin was self-sacrificing. There was no veracity in those stupid houses. The red and gold scarf around Hermione’s neck was yet another pointless, meaningless label forced onto her, and she was sick of it. All she wanted to do was tear it off herself.

 

The silence in the hall meant that they heard them long before they appeared. Shuffling, tentative footsteps that conveyed trepidation and uncertainty. Professor Sprout led the lot, as frumpy as ever, but less pink faced and cherubic. The fifty-odd children that followed gazed about themselves with round eyes that were full of stars made out of reflected candle flames.   
The sorting began and the hapless kids were sent into their respective boxes. The little boy whom Hermione had helped in Flourish and Blotts got sorted into Hufflepuff, and when she smiled at him he tripped over nothing.

 

  
*

 

To her, the feast had tasted like chalk and sawdust, prepared by the unappreciated rank of Hogwarts’ soldiers: The house-elves. Not among them was the one who’d been murdered in front of her. Not among them was brave, barmy, devoted, free-spirited Dobby.   
Ugh, this is just what she’d been afraid of; spending every second remembering things she was supposed to be moving past. And it had just been an hour and a half since she’d stepped into the castle.

  
The sound of clinking cutlery stemmed and soon the food disappeared. Professor – _Headmistress_ McGonagall fluidly got to her feet and cast a serious, searching look around the hall.   
“Good evening, students,” she intoned in her brittle, matter of fact way. There was no playful twinkle in her eyes, her voice was not gentle and comforting in a way that forced you to trust her only to later find out that she’d been manipulating you all along. _Poor Harry_ , Hermione thought and bit her lip. He spoke of Dumbledore with reverence once again, and it had everything to do with this strange death vision. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d do something ludicrous like naming his firstborn after the old man.

  
“...new dawn, and a new era in the history of Hogwarts and the history of Wizardkind.”

  
Wow, she really hadn’t expected that kind of sentimentalism from someone like McGonagall. Blether. She zoned out again, and watched Luna make her glove tap dance on the Ravenclaw table.

  
“...extremely proud of each and every one of you, for the way you stood to defend your school and your peers...”

  
Theo and Malfoy were watching Luna too, and it looked like it was killing them to keep their laughter contained. Hermione averted her eyes immediately, lest she catch their mirth. They fell instead on Neville, and he was listening to McGonagall drone on with such rapt solemnity that Hermione damn near lost it anyway.

  
“...know that the late – the _great_ – Albus Dumbledore would be so honoured to have called you all his students...”

  
Christ, Hermione had to bite her lips between her teeth and curl her toes to stay in control. She felt Ginny nudge her side sharply.   
“ _What’s wrong with you?!_ ” she hissed at her through her teeth.   
Seriously, what was _wrong_ with her –

  
“...each of you demonstrated the finest traits and characteristics that your houses espouse...”

  
A soft, silly laugh gushed out of her and she slapped her hands over her mouth. On either side of her, ten people turned to stare. Dean winked at her. The idiot.

  
“But that said, this year is going to be tough. You will need to work thrice as hard to learn all that you missed out on last year, as well as cover your current year’s curriculum. Expect no leniency as far as academics is concerned. It is also my pleasure to introduce to you the new members of our esteemed faculty: Professor Herbert Jansen, who will be teaching Muggle Studies, and Auror Hestia Jones, who will be taking over Defence Against the Dark Arts.   
“Now, please head back to your respective common rooms and have a good night’s rest. Hogwarts is truly delighted to have you all back within its walls. I request the students re-doing their seventh year to stay back, please.”

The cacophony that ensued was achingly familiar, and it sobered Hermione up at once. God, but the way she was oscillating between emotions would surely drive her mad very soon. Among the scuffling feet and chairs being scraped, Ginny bade them farewell. The call of “first years, this way,” rebounded all around, gliding over a muddle of random phrases –   
“– Fuck, I’m so tired –”   
“– chocolate soufflé was as good as ever –”   
“– I just... I just can’t believe that she won’t be with us anymore!”

 

When the room was cleared of all but Hermione and her classmates, McGonagall stepped around the staff table and walked so she was nearer to the doors, gesturing them all to come closer. Now that the gathering was more intimate, and they were all who they were, their old professor dropped her stern facade a tad. She smiled at them, though her eyes were sad, and she said, “It is absolutely wonderful to see you all.”   
She looked at them, one by one, and while nobody could ever possibly accuse McGonagall of having a grandmotherly air, this was as close as she’d get to it.   
“For a long time we – the staff, board of governors, and I – had thought we’d be putting you all up in your respective house towers, like always. It would have just been a matter of fitting in an extra room or two, and of course that wouldn’t have been a bother.   
“But then I thought about what you all have been through...” she sighed heavily and looked a hundred years older, “You rose to the challenge last year so admirably. You rallied together, forgot your enmities and took care of the school, of the younger children, of each other–”   
McGonagall broke off again, and her gaze shifted to something far, far away.   
“The bonds and friendships you have formed are something not even – not even Albus could have – Oh, dear me. We... have converted the dark tower into a dormitory for you. Mr. Filch will show you the way. Goodnight.”   
She left as abruptly as Filch suddenly sprung out from behind the large wooden doors. “C’man” he muttered, and they tottered aftered him. Not that Hermione needed his help in finding the place.

So here was something to unite her and Harry and Ron again: They would all be living in a place Sirius had felt hopeless in. 

 

* * *

 

Her room was essentially identical to her old dorm, but much smaller. There was a four-poster bed, a thick carpet on the floor, a wardrobe, a desk and chair, and a tiny attached bathroom. Very serviceable, perfectly comfortable, and decked in the safely neutral colours of purple and copper.  

Purple and copper suffused the round common room outside her closed door, too.

  
Hermione shed her clothes as she slowly ambled over to the window. Standing before it in nothing but her shirt and knickers, she wrapped her arms around herself and looked out at the dark cloudy sky and the darker grounds. She stared until an onslaught of raindrops against the pane startled her.   
Fifteen minutes later she was curled up in bed, as wide awake as she’d ever been, listening to the downpour and intermittent rumbles of thunder.

* * *

 


	48. Forty-Eight

  
  
A flurry of owls descended upon them during breakfast. Hermione was examining her timetable when Herms ( _damn you, Potter,_ ) landed in front of Ginny bearing a missive from Harry.   
“A letter on the first day,” Hermione said smilingly, “He’s really doing his best to be a good boyfriend, isn’t he?”   
Ginny rolled her eyes. “He’s anxious, what with him being there, and me being here... with Dean.”   
“Don’t tell me he’s actually worried!”   
“He is. Said some bullshit about me being too popular for my own good. So he’s going to remind me he exists every day.”   
“Right,” Hermione huffed, turning away from her bowl of porridge (it had been usurped by owls,) “If there’s one person it’s easy to forget in the wizarding world, it’s Harry Potter.”   
  


Ginny was lost not long after that, falling into her letter. And so Hermione returned to admiring her schedule. Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy, Herbology, Potions, and Ancient Runes spread neatly across the week with an hour off every day. She was most eagerly looking forward to drowning in course work, beginning......   
Now.   
The bell sounded, signalling the launch of their first lesson.   
“Herbology?” Hermione asked Ginny. Ginny did not respond. “Hullo? _Ginny_! Herbology?”   
She started. “Oh, yes. Yes. Herbology.”   
With a faint smile she stowed away Harry’s note, and they both set off towards the greenhouses. 

 

The marsh-like ground squelched under their boots and the sky above rumbled forebodingly – perfectly gloomy weather to set the day going. They collected people along the way: Theo and Luna, Neville, Anthony, and Malfoy, Padma and Tracy...   
“I really hope it won’t be those Venomous Tentaculas again,” Theo groused. Seeing him in his Hogwarts robes once again, (with his hair in his eyes, wearing the bluegreen scarf and a petulant expression,) made Hermione grin.   
“They’re actually really fascinating...” Neville countered with such _Neville-_ like earnestness. The badge pinned on his lapel matched the twinkle in his eye.   
“You think Bubotuber pods are fascinating,” Malfoy sniped.   
“Well, they are!”

Sprout set them the task of repotting walking plants. It was difficult as the roots were fond of chucking away soil quicker than a human could cover them. Soon enough, dirt was flying everywhere, landing on clothing, in eyes, mouths...   
(“MOTHERFFFFFFRTTH!” Anthony spat. His hands grabbed the shoot as though wanting to strangle it.)   
...And hair. There was mud in Hermione’s hair and her hair wasn’t made to have mud in it. It was a mysterious portal where things could get lost forever...   
“HEEL, YOU FIEND!” someone yelled from across the room.   
   
“Freezing charms!” Sprout hollered over the din, “Use freezing charms!”   
A collective groan went around – they were all united by the frustration that came with _‘now why didn’t I think of that?_ ’   
With her brilliant, exemplary, war-sharpened reflexes, Hermione whipped out Bellatrix’s wand and.... _En-garde!_ _...._ cast the spell. The plant froze, fell harmlessly into its pot, and she blew at the end of the wand like a total heroine.   
“Oh, _bravo_ ,” Ginny lauded sarcastically. Her walking plant tossed a lump of mud at her head.   
“Good boy,” Hermione told it.    

 

*  
  


 

She attended Ancient Runes and sat next to Theo as Professor Babbling ran them through the range of scripts they’d be deciphering that year.

She spent the lunch hour shaking soil out of her hair in a courtyard while a couple of boys played football with a hat they’d transfigured into a crude ball.

She sat through Slughorn’s bloated lecture on Alihotsy Draughts and tried her best to smile when he _Oh miss Granger-_ ed her at the end of the class.

She turned Terry Boot’s (rather large) ears into antlers without batting an eyelid in Transfiguration. “You’re really so brilliant,” he gushed at her, and she didn’t roll her eyes. Really.

The day had made her feel preoccupied in the best possible way. She was high on the smell wafting out of every crisp roll of parchment she unfurled. She was exhilarated by the rush that came with taking down her first lot of notes for the year. She kept her head down and focused, she performed her tasks with thoroughness.   
Thus, it was understandable that it took her the whole day to notice the stares. It was only when she was walking alone to the Great Hall for supper that she became aware of them: The side-glances, the shameless gawking, the murmurs. Some of the younger students would stop dead just to gape at her with stupid round eyes. One slightly older boy with oily ringlets and sallow skin had actually _winked_ at her; his yellow teeth would have made her parents weep. Hermione kept her gaze locked straight ahead of her as she walked as fast as she could without breaking into a run. She was not used to this, and she longed for the time she could scurry around the castle with a bulging satchel and ink-stained fingers, and nobody would give her a second look.   
She felt a burst of relief when she saw Neville and Dean waving at her from the Gryffindor table.

“So?” Dean began, scooching over to make room for her on the bench, “Good first day?”   
“It’s been okay,” she replied, eyeing a plate piled with lamb chops.   
“Yeah,” he agreed, “Not bad.”

 

*

 

When heading back to the common room, she encountered Ginny standing still like a statue on the fifth floor. She was staring at a wall with glazed eyes. Hermione cautiously approached her, and in the gentlest of voices said, “Ginny?”   
In spite of the mildness of her tone, Ginny jumped. “This is the place, right?”   
“Y–Yes.”   
“Tell me how it happened.”   
Hermione inhaled deeply. She’d already told her what’d happened countless times during dark nights when they’d both lain wide awake and anxious in their beds. Ginny never reacted, she’d just sigh and close her eyes... and then ask her again a few nights later.   
“We – Harry, Ron, and I – came running down here from The Room of Requirement, and saw Fred and Percy duelling a couple of Death Eaters. We stopped to help. They were quite a team, you know? Powerful. Holding their own. Full of confidence. Percy... Percy made a joke... I don’t – I don’t remember what it was, but Fred was laughing, and then suddenly... out of nowhere... a huge explosion struck and we were all sent flying in different directions. I hit a pillar – that one right there – it took me a few moments to recover. Then... Then Harry and I found each other, and just as we were beginning to look for the others, we heard Percy cry out. It was over there... that’s where he – where they were.”   
“Fuck,” Ginny choked. She fell against a wall, slid down to the floor, and buried her face between her knees.  Hermione sat next to her and tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. She stayed there quietly while Ginny cried and cried and cried.

 

* * *

  
  


The private “eighth year” common room, (as the _real_ seventh years called it,) was an odd place. As homey as the Gryffindor one, yes, but it was seriously strange to see that particular assortment of people gathered together in one room, lounging, studying, chattering, or playing cards. Dean had brought Seamus’ gramophone along with him, and was currently in the process of introducing his peers to Radiohead.   
Blaise Zabini was not a fan.   
“If you do not shut that infernal thing down, I will eviscerate it,” he growled one evening over a haunting, lilting chant of _nice dream, nice dream, nice dream.  
_ “Nah.” __  
“I’m not joking–”  
“You’re outnumbered, Zabini.”   
Not long after that, he disappeared up the stairs leading to the boy’s dormitories.

Both he and Daphne Greengrass were surly, sneery, and stand-offish. They didn’t speak to anyone but each other, and stayed locked in their rooms most of the time. Hermione felt like she got the lion’s (–damn it, no house-associations, _please–_ ) the _largest_ share of their contempt: They scowled at her for doing awfully obtrusive things like sitting, or breathing.

“Wanker,” Dean spat after Zabini’s retreating back, “Anyway, I’m knackered. Hagrid made us chase flitterbies around the ground today. I’m off to bed, mates.”   
“Bye,” Hermione muttered, not really looking up from her very first homework assignment. An essay on Alihotsy, which was due in a week, and hers was just a paragraph away from completion.   
“Put that away,” Theo whined, “I’m bored.”   
“Tough,” she snapped.   
“Hermione!”   
“Go play with Neville or Malfoy.”    
“They aren’t here!”   
She finally looked up, and saw that besides Justin and Michael playing chess by the fireplace, the common room was empty.   
She blinked. “Where is everyone?”   
“Bed, darling,” Theo sighed, “It’s past midnight.”   
“ _Oh!_ Why are you still here?”   
“Keeping you company, _obviously_. But I can see that you don’t give a shit. Merlin, it’s such a thankless job, being your friend. I mean, I dote on you and what do I get? _Go play with Neville or Malfoy,_ she says. Brushes me aside, she does. I give and I give and I try so hard to – OW! You hexed me!”   
“Don’t be such a baby. It was a mild tweaking jinx.”   
“ _Mild tweaking jinx_ , she says! Oh my, oh me! Such is my misery! Put upon for all eternity. You kick me and you hurt me, and yet I love you like my own limb, like my own blood! And you – you! Ah, I cannot even _speak_ of the injustice anymore without welling up! Woe is –”   
“Oh god, FINE,” she cut in while pinching the bridge of her nose, “I’ll stop working, okay, you attention-seeking freak.”   
“Brilliant!” Theo grinned, “How about we – Oh, hello there, Draco!”

Hermione stiffened immediately.

  
She hadn’t been prepared to deal with so much Malfoy, and so often. Although, to be fair, she didn’t have to deal with anything more than his presence...   
During classes. Between classes. In the common room at half past midnight.   
He never spoke to her, barely acknowledged her existence, and she did her best to return the favour – she really did. But somehow, the discomfort of having him around never went away. At odd times, his voice would float over to her, making a dry remark to someone or the other, and she’d shake her head at the bizarreness of her friends’ laughter that would invariably follow. They _liked_ him. Or at least, they tolerated him and they thought he was amusing. Neville, Luna... and even Ginny. It was in these moments that she felt completely alienated. She wasn’t a part of this merry group; this group that had suffered and strived together in the castle. The bond they’d formed was quite powerful – the understanding they shared was strong enough to completely extinguish the animosity that had previously existed between them.

  
She took a deep breath and watched him approach with apprehension. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt and joggers, and his hair was a right mess. His frame seemed to be thrumming with irritation.   
“Can’t sleep again?” Theo asked as he eyed him speculatively.   
Malfoy replied with a sharp, “No,” and shot a pointed glance at Hermione, clearly indicating that he did not wish to discuss it in front of her.   
“Well I,” Hermione said, (her voice a little too high,) “I’m going to bed.”   
She pulled out Bellatrix’s wand to quickly spell her belongings into her bag and get away from there as soon as –   
“What the hell?”   
She froze, startled, and blinked quizzically at Malfoy. “I beg your pardon?”   
“Is that aun – That’s Bellatrix’s wand!” He looked aghast, eyes narrowed and mouth turned down.   
“No,” Hermione answered quickly, and jumped to her feet.   
“Cut the bullshit, Granger, I’d recognise it anywhere. That’s Bellatrix’s wand!”   
“Bellatrix Lestrange is dead, and dead people don’t have wa–”   
“I _told_ you to cut the bullshit,” he snarled, “What’s _wrong_ with you? Why would you keep that?”   
(“Leave it, Draco–”)   
“I needed a wand, you know, since mine was taken from me when I’d swung by your lovely home. I’m sure you remember.”   
Malfoy took a step closer, and his upper lip curled menacingly. “ _This_ wand? Of all the –”   
Hermione’s blood boiled over with no warning. “It’s a perfectly good wand!” she said through gritted teeth, “And –”   
“No. It. Isn’t.”   
“– AND wands were a bit hard to come by while I was on the run –”   
“Yes, Granger,” he matched her tone, “ _While you were on the run_. But seeing the amount you ate at dinner, I doubt you’ll be running anytime soon–”   
“ _Excuse me_?”   
(“Fuck’s sake... Stop. Both of you... please!”)   
“I’m sure somewhere in that _outstanding_ brain of yours, you might have registered that the war is over? Go to Ollivander’s, get a new fucking wand, and destroy that monstrosity!”   
“ _I don’t want to!_ ”

She’d ended up shrieking that last sentence. In the quiet common room, the echoes of her voice lingered for a painfully long time. Some part of her knew that Theo was deeply distressed, and that Justin and Michael were probably watching the scene with perverse fascination. But mostly she didn’t care because all her concentration was focused on stopping herself from inflicting bodily harm on the pushy arsehole in front of her.

Something shifted in his expression. Anger made way for clarity swathed in disgust.  
 “Ah,” he pronounced harshly, “I see.”   
Hermione waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. His face fell back into its usual arrangement, and besides his rage-reddened cheeks, nothing about him betrayed his fury.   
(“Ooooookay, then. Let’s all just call it a day now, yeah?”)

“It’s a trophy, isn’t it?”   
“ _What_?” Hermione hissed.   
“Of course. Little goody-goody Granger slayed the evil witch and now she goes about brandishing her wand like a ba–”   
“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”   
“Please, it’s painfully obvious, and such a depressing cliché.” He’d also reverted to his bored, condescending manner of speaking, and she... wanted to _hit him._ “Get rid of the wand, Granger. I don’t care for your trite symbolism.”   
Hermione clenched her fists. “Well, I don’t care for... what you care for.”   
“Eloquent,” he drawled, arching a single brow.   
“Go fuck yourself. Goodnight, Theo.”

 

She stormed away before she could explode with rage... or worse... burst into tears. She could feel them building up, a messy mix of anger, helplessness, and _..._ god damn it... hurt. She heard Theo loudly chastising Malfoy, calling him a “prick” – among other things – and she sped up so that she wouldn’t have to hear what Malfoy said in retaliation.   
Her vision was already blurring by the time she’d reached her room. There was something vicious bubbling inside her, and the moment the door slammed shut behind her, she hurled the blasted wand across the room. It sparked as it hit a wall and fell with a clatter onto the floor.   
Pacing around madly in her room, she clamped down on her overbearing desire to scream. A trophy? A fucking _trophy?_ That wand had bobbed before her while she’d experienced the worse pain of her life... a _trophy?!_ That wand had made her a killer... a _trophy_?!

It had been with her through awful life defining moments, preyed upon her and made her a predator... _trite symbolism – that ignorant bastard_... it was tied to her and she was shackled to it. Couldn’t he see – didn’t he understand – she would never be free of it.

 

* * *

  
  


 The weekend brought with it more downpours, pelting the earth with pitiless abandon. The world outside was a solid sheet of grey, and Hermione gazed at it through tall arched windows in the library.

Ah, the Hogwarts library.   
She was immensely glad she hadn’t seen how the battle had ravaged it: In her mind, it remained as it always had been... and it was simply perfect. Her beautiful little sanctuary.

Curled up in an armchair, she penned a letter to her parents, one to Mrs. Weasley, one to Harry, and one to Ron. She kept them light and short, making an added effort to sound friendly in the last one, even though she didn’t think Ron would bother to read it.   
Afterwards, she pulled her hair forward to fall across her face and closed her eyes.

 

* * *

  
  


On Sunday, at five-thirty in the morning, she slipped on her trainers and went out for a run. The grounds by the lake were soggy, so she charmed her shoes to prevent them from sinking. She panted as she ran up and down the length of the forest; humidity was making it difficult to breathe.   
Halfway through her third lap she doubled over. A light drizzle had commenced, and the moisture mingled with her sweat most unpleasantly. She walked back slowly, savouring the picture that Hogwarts made at dawn: A picture perfect fairytale castle.

 

Alas, her determined march towards her bathroom was unfortunately deterred when she got to the common room. Neville and Hannah Abbot were entwined on a sofa, kissing like their lives depended on it. In addition to that, they were both topless.   
“Oh my god!” Hermione squealed, and immediately turned her back to them.   
“Hermione! _Shit!_ ”   
“No... It’s fine... I’m so sorry. Please... er, carry on.”

She did the speediest, most awkward side shuffle and got the hell away from them. When she was finally free of her damp clothes and standing under a cascade of warm water, her thoughts wandered. She felt a twang of hot envy for everybody who was getting to wade through the war’s aftermath with a lover by their side. She always, _always_ noticed the way they reached out to each other in moments of weakness, and the way their smiles sometimes held the kind of blinding joy that had no reason to exist in the current times. How amazing it must be to have a warm, solid body pressed against yours during the darkest of nights! She thought back to her night with Pete and how, for a few seconds, she’d actually felt unburdened.   
She wanted that. She really wanted that. She wanted –   
_Ugh_.   
She leant against the tiled wall and widened her stance. Her eyes fluttered shut and she rubbed between her legs and thought back to the way she’d felt that night – tightness, trembles, so much warmth, and alarming fullness. The pressure built, it coiled deep inside her, and she rubbed relentlessly, occasionally slipping two fingers inside herself. As tremors shimmied down her legs, she slid lower down the wall and her knees bent inelegantly to lend her better access and to support her.   
When relief came it was far too short and miserably mild. A broken sob tore its way out of her – like an alarm to indicate that maximum frustration levels had been reached. _Mayday, mayday, mayday, mayd–_

  
She got back into bed without bothering to dress, and conjured six fluffy pillows to enclose herself within. Thus ensconced, she lay there and thought about how miserable it was that Ron hadn’t been who she’d built him up to be. She missed a happy ending that never could have been.   
From her bag, she summoned her charmed galleon to inform Theo that she wouldn’t be showing up at Hogsmeade that day. 

 

* * *

  
  


Hestia Jones was the kind of lively young teacher you couldn’t help but admire. A bit like Miss Honey, if Miss Honey was a badarse thug thwarting witch who wore wine-red lipstick. She’d been teaching them advanced variants of _protego_ , and Hermione felt like giggling in every lesson. After all, she could cast them all wandlessly, in bad weather, when shaken and injured, (with a raving, unconscious Harry Potter on the ground beside her,) after just barely evading Voldemort’s clutches...

Yes, that made her want to giggle. Was it late-onset cruciatus-inflicted insanity? She felt INSANE.

Professor Jones, (weird calling her that after she’d been ‘Hestia’ for so long,) told them to write an essay and set them off when the bell rang. Hermione thought she would go to the library for her free period when she went flying back as someone had pulled at the strap of her bag.   
“What’s your problem?” she huffed at her assailant.   
“Let's go for a walk.”   
“Theo, it’s pouring.”   
“I didn’t say outside, did I?” He rolled his eyes. “Walk with me.”

  
He led her to the viaduct and the moment they stepped onto it, cold wind slapped against her face. She swiftly cast a warming charm over the both of them.   
They strolled down that narrow strip of stone as brutal rain roared like deafening white noise on either side. It was like balancing on the thin line of sanity... like walking a tightrope through oblivion. She ran her fingers along the rough stones to her right, and her fingers came away icy and damp.

“Look,” Theo sighed bracingly, “I’m sorry about what Draco said.”   
“Pfff.” Hermione’s lip curled involuntarily. “You don’t have to apologise on his behalf.”   
“I know. But I am sorry. He shouldn’t have said any of what he did.”   
“Yes, well, that’s never stopped him before.”   
Theo sighed once more, and lightly touched her arm to bring her to a halt. “Hermione. Come on... he’s trying to be less of a dick. _He is_. It’s just that he doesn’t have very good memories involving that wand.”   
“Oooh, I wonder what that’s like,” Hermione snapped. She shrugged his hand off and recommenced her stroll.   
He followed, but didn’t say anything for a long time. Only when they’d walked the length of the bridge and back did he, once again, stop her. With both his hands on her shoulders, he looked searchingly at her face for a long moment, and said, “Do you think that maybe he has a point?”   
“I’m sorry, _what_?!”   
“Why are you still holding onto Bellatrix’s wand, Hermione.”   
She whacked his arms away and made to charge back inside the castle, but he stopped her again by grabbing her elbow.   
“Listen to me. Please.”   
“No. _No._ ” She tried to pull free, but he wouldn’t let her. “We spoke about this Theo! In Australia... I told you... and... and you said alright!”   
He drew her closer and gave her the sort of soft, kind smile that she really _did not_ want to see at that moment.   
“I said alright because you were under far too much stress at the time. I’m still amazed at how you held it all together. And I promise I’ll say alright again if you just tell me why you’re so adamant on keeping Bell–”   
“IT’S NOT HERS!” Hermione’s cry got engulfed by a thunder clap. “It’s just a wand –”   
“It clearly isn’t.”   
“Stop it,” she turned her face away and whispered, “Please, stop.”   
He hugged her tightly then, one hand hooked around her shoulders and the other flat against the back of her head.

__  
It’s raining, it’s pouring,  
Self-pity is so boring.

  
“Let's go,” she muttered after pulling away, and she went on to babble, “We should get started on this week’s runes assignment. It’s quite tricky. How about Thursday afternoon, after potions?”   
“Sure,” he agreed, and slung an arm around her. 

 

* * *

 

Arithmancy was the best. They had just one project for the whole year: Decoding Delphi’s personal diary of predictions. First, they had to translate the original Ancient Greek to Latin, and then they had to apply complex isopsephy.   
Sat at her favourite table in the library, Hermione was surrounded by three fat dictionaries. It was one of the most challenging tasks she’d put her mind to in a long time, and she was giddy with excitement.

“Hello. Mind if I join you?”   
It took her a moment to pull herself out of her work. Padma was standing gawkily at the other end of her table with a wry look on her face.   
“Not at all,” Hermione told her.   
“Thanks.” Padma sat down and began piling the table with her own books. “Working on the translation? It’s insanely difficult, isn’t it?”   
“Only in the best way possible!”   
“Of course!”

After working in silence for half an hour, Hermione hesitatingly put forth the question that she’d been wanting to ask since day one – “How’s Parvati?”    
Padma swallowed thickly and replied without looking up from her parchment. “Not good. Lavender’s death really messed her up. She couldn’t bring herself to come back here. We’ve had to get her a permanent caretaker after she took an overdose of calming draught.”   
“Oh no,” Hermione gasped.    
“My parents found her in time, luckily. But they have to work; they can’t watch her all day.”    
“I’m so sorry,” Hermione murmured.   
“Yeah,” Padma breathed, “Me too. I really tried to help her out of it. Kept trying to talk to her, but she just doesn’t want to. We visited our grandparents in India for a few weeks to see if the change of scenery would help. It didn’t. I don’t know what to do.”   
“George Weasley was like that too. He stayed locked in his room for almost the entire summer. And then one day he just snapped out of it. He seems much better now, and, er, maybe Parvati just needs some time, too?”   
Shrugging sadly, Padma muttered, “Maybe,” and after what appeared to be a tacit agreement, they both returned to their work.

But the air around them was unbearably heavy. In her infinite wisdom, Hermione decided to change the subject:   
“So. You and Tracey Davis, huh?” she blurted.   
And she wanted to die. Holy shit, _that_ was what she came up with? Wasn’t she a prized moron? But to her surprise, Padma smiled.   
“Yeah. Me and Tracey Davis.” She seemed soothed by just the thought of the other girl.   
Hermione’s consequent grin marked the end of their conversation, and the scratching of quills against parchment was the only sound to be heard.

 

* * *

 

With the first two weeks gone by, the castle of Hogwarts appeared to have settled into a regular rhythm, moving to the sound of raindrops and fluttering robes.   
Hermione couldn’t stop staring at it in the early morning mist and light as she slowly made her way back after her run. Her gaze scanned it from end to end – from the Greenhouses to the Quidditch hoops. A flock of yellow-orange crossbills exploded off the tops of distant trees and flew in an arc over the castle.    
Lovely.   
It looked serene, she _felt_ serene, and she smiled to herself. She walked past the old pumpkin patch where Buckbeak was lying fast asleep; she thought she really ought to pay Hagrid a visit sometime soon. She swung her arms in an over-exaggerated, jaunty manner as her scuffy trainers hit the cobbled path leading to the main entrance. Today would be a good day. Yes. She’d go to Hogsmeade with her friends, have butterbeer, stop by Scrivenshaft’s, and maybe –

 

The sound of thudding footfalls from behind had her spinning around. It was Malfoy. With windswept hair and a broom in hand, he looked back at her and said, “Granger.”   
She ran.

No.   
No way.   
It was going to be a _good day_ and good days certainly did not involve an altercation with that prat.   
“ _Granger!_ ” he called again and she ran faster, but of course, (and curse his long legs,) he caught up easily, overtaking her and forcing her to stop by planting himself directly in her path. She considered going around him and escaping... however, the determined look in his eyes stalled her. He would inevitably give chase and catch her again.   
So she snapped, “Well?” with a scowl, and crossed her arms expectantly.   
His mouth opened, but he wavered. His expression was a strange combination of irritation and resignation. He watched her silently, carefully, and just as she was about to spit out another _well_ , he spoke.   
“I – I owe you an...” Gosh, he was really struggling, “An apology.”   
“I see.” Hermione raised her eyebrows.   
A low, irritated rumble emitted out of his throat. “Well, I’m sor–”   
“Remember when I tried to apologise to you at Fred’s funeral and you refused to let me?”   
She nearly laughed out loud at the pure loathing on his face. And that was extremely odd, because she was also extremely furious.   
“Alright, look –”   
“Isn’t that also when you said that we should keep things civil between us? _For Theo_?”   
“Listen you – _Granger_ ,” he growled... then stopped to take in a deep breath. “I reacted badly.”   
“No, really?”   
Malfoy’s stormy eyes narrowed. “Do you really have to be so difficult?”   
“ _Me_?!?” Hermione sputtered with outrage, “Difficult... Do _I_ have to be –”   
“Forget it,” he muttered and stalked off.  She gaped after him, unable to speak or move till he was a good distance away.   
“Was that your idea of an apology?” she yelled when he was nearly past the main doors. She didn’t know whether he’d heard her or not.  
  


* * *

 


	49. Forty-Nine

  
Hermione’s eyes opened slowly at dawn, blearily sweeping across her room: A patchwork of diffused purple light and deep shadows. She sat up, her mad mass of hair fell all around her, and she raised her arms high above her head to stretch. Rolling her neck, she kicked away her duvet and set her bare feet onto the plum rug by her bed. She bent to touch her toes, holding the pose until the muscles in the back of her thighs felt a pull. Her hair tumbled forward, spilling onto the floor.  
Such was her daily morning routine: She’d stretch, drink a glass of water, splash some on her face, pull her hair up, yank on her joggers, slip on her trainers, and then step outside into the cool morning to get her blood rushing and her heart thumping.  
It was her _daily_ routine and she followed it every day, just as she did on that day; on just another regular old Saturday.

 

Dense, murky clouds had begun to infiltrate the sky by the time she had finished. She kept a measured pace while returning to her room, looking about the same old ground and at the same old castle on that very, very regular day.  
She spent a long time washing herself, generously slathering her skin with her favourite orange body wash. She conditioned her hair twice. She shaved her legs _very_ carefully. She sang along with the sound of hundreds of drops of water hitting against the tiles.

_Baby's good to me, you know  
She's happy as can be, you know  
She said so  
I'm in love with her and I feel fine _

She felt fine as she towelled herself off, and as she rubbed lotion onto herself, and as she roughly dried her hair with Bellatrix’s wand, and as she put on a pair of jeans and a light jumper. She helped herself to another glass of water. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the back of her door.  
_Bugger_.  
She shouldn’t have gone for that run.  
It had given her _quite_ an appetite, and that really messed up her plan for that very ordinary day: SIR ADGO, i.e., Stay In Room And Don’t Go Out. Sir Adgo, she’d decided, had the temperament of Scrooge, and looked like W.G. Grace. A fine thing to aspire –

Shit, she was starving.

With an annoyed huff, she stood up, and decided it was still quite early. Perhaps nobody else would be awake, and she could run down to the Great Hall, scarf down a plate of eggs, and run back up. Okay. She nodded to herself.

 

But it was a mistake.  
A big mistake if there ever was one. She knew it the moment she set foot in the common room.

They stood in a bloody line; Theo, Ginny, Luna, Neville, and Dean, all with giant shit-eating grins on their faces.  
“Happy birthday!” they chorused.  
Hermione promptly spun around to return to quiet sanity, and –  
And someone caught her by the shoulders and dragged her back.  
“Don’t be a downer,” Theo muttered as he hugged her to his side.  
Hermione scowled as she was passed around, from one embrace to the other, ending up with Ginny gripping her arms and _hopping_ on the spot like a deranged bunny rabbit.  
“We’re going to Hogsmeade after breakfast, alright?”  
“Ginny,” Hermione groaned, “Please–”  
“To the bookshop,” Ginny went on loudly, “Everybody wants to buy you a present.”  
Somewhat mollified, Hermione let herself be dragged down by Ginny and Theo, both of whom had apprehended one of her arms each.  
“And then,” Ginny beamed, “There’s a surprise!”  
“What is it?”  
“A surprise, you ninny.”

 

It was highly disturbing, the number of people who wished her on the way. Random, unknown first years to seventh years, from all houses, threw ‘happy birthday’s at her in a way that made her want to duck for cover.  
“What is this?” she hissed, “Was there some kind of public announcement made or something?”  
“Er, a couple of days after the – the whole... battle... _thing_ – the Prophet published a very detailed biography of Hermione Granger,” Theo replied wryly.  
“ _What?_ ” she reeled, “How dare they!”  
“You’re a public figure, buddy. Better get used to it.”  
Grumbling, Hermione settled down at the Gryffindor table and was angrily buttering her toast when an owl descended before her bearing an enormous package. From her parents no doubt and that was enough to make her smile a little. Over the course of the next half hour, two more parcels arrived: one wrapped in no-nonsense brown paper, and one shabbily bundled in bright yellow. She looked over at the faculty table to exchange a grin with McGonagall and Hagrid.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Ginny warbled, bouncing on the balls of her feet with pointless excitement.  
“Ugh,” Hermione grunted, “I need to go back to my room.”  
“Sorry, no,” Theo stated with finality.  
“I can’t lug these around!” she wailed, indicating towards her armful of presents, “And I don’t have my jacket. It’s nippy outside.”  
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Fine. Go with her, Theo. I don’t trust her. We’ll meet you at the entrance.”

 

  
*

 

The carriage ride to Hogsmeade was anything but peaceful. Theo rambled on and on about what cake Hermione’s parents might have sent for her. Ginny’s eyes twinkled with glee over her soon to be revealed surprise. Luna was spewing some waffle about the significance of the number nineteen that not even Neville was pretending to listen to. Hermione decided then and there that she would choose the most expensive books in the shop for them to buy for her.  
Nevertheless, she was still Hermione Granger, the girl who turned into a contented little lump whenever she found herself surrounded by books. She took her time pacing between the shelves, picking out tomes that piqued her interest and thumbing through them. If her companions were bored, they spoke nothing of it.  
Afterwards, with a large paper bag in hand, they tripped into Honeydukes... and then Zonko’s, and then Gladrags, for no reason at all. It was not nearly as bad as Hermione had dreaded; simply wandering around the village with her friends... Well. There were worse ways to spend the day. Sir Adgo wouldn’t need to be visited by any ghosts tonight.

 

At around eleven, they decided to head to the Three Broomsticks for a bite and a pint, and just as they were turning the corner, Ginny grabbed Hermione’s arm and whispered, “There you are. Surprise.”  
Hermione squealed when she spotted her messy haired, bespectacled surprise, and rushed to hug him.  
“Harry!”  
“Happy birthday!” he said into her hair as he held her.  
“You’re here!” she broke away to beam at him, “You’re really here!”  
“Well, of course! I couldn’t miss your birthday, could I... Gran.”  
She shoved his shoulder playfully and with a laugh, and another very familiar voice piped up from behind her.  
“Happy birthday, Hermione.”  
She turned with dizzying speed and stared at Ron in amazement. He looked a little pained, and kept his hands crossed tightly across his chest, clearly rejecting the hug she wasn’t stupid enough to offer him.  
“Thanks,” she breathed, feeling a stiff smile spread across her face.  
He nodded, and then scowled up at the dull sky. “Looks like rain again. Let’s go in?”  
They went in, breathing a collective sigh of relief at the toasty warmth of the pub, and found a corner table to settle around.  
“Rosmerta,” Ron cooed in that detestable manner that he put on around her, “Jolly good to see you again. Looking lovely as always.”  
He shot a glance at Hermione in between (literally) every two words. Was he hoping for an embarrassing display of jealousy like she’d been... unfortunately... prone to show in the past? She didn’t know what to do with herself, so she just gazed down at the grimy menu before her like it was a cipher she was trying to decode.  
They placed their order and Rosmerta, with a flick of her hair, told them that it was all on the house. “I won’t have you lot paying in my establishment. Don’t you even try it.”  
Ron stared at her hips as she sashayed away.  
“Hey, Weasley,” Theo remarked, “No joke this time?”  
“Get bent.”  
“Ah, alright. I mean, it’ll be hard to top that last one. What was it? A hag and a healer and a – _hey!_ ”  
Ron threw a napkin ring at him.

All in all – it was an enjoyable meal. Hot food, warm butterbeer, and good company: a combination one really couldn’t go wrong with. After the initial discomfort, Ron settled into being old Ron again once he and Harry began regaling the table with stories from Auror training.  
“It’s basically been like a series of D.A.D.A. lessons so far – but a lot more gruelling, obviously. Oh, and our supervisor was very impressed by how quickly I picked up wandless magic, by the way. Nobody else has managed it so far. He said I must’ve had a very remarkable instructor.”  
He winked at Hermione and she flushed with pleasure.

During a lull, Ginny asked, “How’s George?”  
“Not bad,” Ron answered around a mouthful of steak, “Been helping him with the shop on the weekends. It’s fucking swamped all day... George and Varity can barely handle it. But it’s good. Keeps him busy, you know.”  
“Yes,” Ginny murmured.

 

Four rounds of butterbeer later, they parted. Hermione hugged Harry, waved at Ron and set off towards the castle. Ginny had stayed behind, Neville had gone to meet Hannah, and Theo and Luna got lost in their own world, strolling along with their arms wrapped around each other.  
“Did you have fun then?” Dean smiled down at her.  
“Yes,” she assured him, smiling back, “Thank you. It was lovely.”  
“I have another present for you, by the way.”  
“Oh,” she started, “You didn’t have to –”  
“From Seamus,” he continued, “He’s cut a deal with a booze supplier, you see. Two bottles of prime firewhiskey await you.”  
“Oh, brilliant,” she laughed.

 

* * *

 

Theo’s fifth guess turned out to be right. It was a rich black forest cake that her parents had sent her, and Hermione brought it out to the common room in the evening to share with everybody. On Ginny and Theo’s insistence, she was made to blow out candles and awkwardly stand there while everybody sang the birthday song. (In the middle of that tortuous rendition, Zabini and Greengrass stalked off.)  
It was followed by a lot of (unnecessary) individual wishes and a lot of _oh thank you, thank you_ on her part. Padma patted her on the back, and Tracey Davis spoke to her for the first time ever.  
“Happy birthday.”  
Hermione tried to not let that sully her opinion of the girl. “Oh thank you, thank you.”  
Terry Boot hugged her, which she thought was quite uncalled for... and when he didn’t let go for a solid four seconds, she decided it was downright inappropriate.

  
It was when she was looking around the room to ensure that everybody had got a piece that she noticed Malfoy sitting by a window, reading. Hermione swallowed, sucked in a breath, rolled her shoulders, tapped her right foot, performed a whole assortment of similar procrastinating motions, before picking up a plate and walking over to him.  
He looked up as she approached; first at her face, then at the cake, and back at her face. During that little dance, one of his eyebrows climbed up his forehead, so at the final glance, Hermione was presented with _Draco Malfoy With An Arched Brow_. It was almost a visual trope; an expression so completely bound to the single-dimensional notion of _Malfoy As The Prized Git And Bully_ she’d always had, that she almost laughed. Her amusement must have shown, because both his brows pulled down, and _please look, here we have the classic Draco Malfoy Scowl._ She’d seen that expression so many times before.  
He sat up straight as she got closer, gently shutting his book. The scowl persisted.  
“Here,” she said in her ridiculous high voice, and thrust the plate towards him. When all he did was eye it mistrustfully, she huffed. “Go on, Malfoy. I haven’t poisoned it. It’s just a slice of birthday cake.”  
He looked back at her, and the scowl was gone. His face was just... blank; every line was smooth, and every angle was sharp. He kept looking at her as he accepted the cake. Hermione turned away the moment her hand was free, but she’d taken no more than a step and a half, when his voice, soft and a bit gravelly, washed over her.  
“Happy birthday.”  
She froze, but she didn’t turn around. “Thank you.”

 

Over an hour later, less than a quarter of the cake remained. Hagrid’s rock cakes were untouched. The second bottle of Seamus’ firewhiskey was half empty.  
Half full?  
Hermione rolled her eyes at herself. Even so, she was smiling. The scene around her filled her with warmth and affection. She supposed the bottle was half full after all. Well, it was, until Dean took care of it.  
As another round made its way, Hermione followed Dean and the bottle. First there was Theo, (still eating cake,) and Luna, (who was feeding him the cake.) Then there were Padma and Tracey sat close together, playing a rowdy game of exploding snap with Justin and Susan. Neville had Hannah squirming and giggling on his lap as he tickled her, and from the next chair, Malfoy rolled his eyes. Michael was doing a highly dramatised re-enactment of Neville beheading Nagini.... with Anthony playing the snake.  
“OW! I told you! Not so hard!”  
“Hah! That’s the exact opposite of what your mum said to me last night!”  
“You arsehole!”  
Anthony chased him into the boy’s dorms.

Lisa waved to nobody in particular as she shuffled towards the girl’s dorms. And Terry – damn it. Terry was coming towards her. Hermione slid off the sofa and dropped onto the carpet next to Ginny, and rested her head on the other girl’s shoulder.  
“So,” Ginny murmured, “It was a good day, wasn’t it?”  
“Yeah.”  
Hermione yawned, after which her face settled, once again, into a smile.

 

*

 

Around one at night, she decided it was time to head to bed after realising that the reason the conversation she’d been engaged in had seemed one-sided was that Ginny had fallen asleep. Hermione conjured a blanket for her... and one for Dean, who was asleep on an armchair, and one for Justin who was asleep at the table, surrounded by playing cards.  
“Goodnight,” she muttered to Theo and Luna – the last two stragglers in the room – who were still cozied up together.  
“Wait!” Theo cried. He stumbled towards her and pushed a small wrapped box into her hand, “Don’t forget your present.”  
“You already bought me a book.”  
“Yeah, so?” he challenged with narrowed eyes.  
“Nothing,” she laughed, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “Thanks.”

 

She cried once she had unwrapped it. He’d got her a watch.

 

* * *

 

_The Art of Transfiguration in Ancient Greece: Separating Myth from Reality_ was the title of the book McGonagall had given Hermione for her birthday. It was an unbelievably fascinating study, pulling down the great gods from their mountain top and deeming them nothing more than exceptionally talented witches and wizards. She remained transfixed to the book for three days, barely aware of life going on around her. The only reason she made it to lessons on time was the perfectly functional, pretty silver-strapped watch bound around her wrist. When Theo had first seen her wearing it, his smile was a beautiful thing to behold.

 

At six-forty-seven in the evening, sharp, she finally pulled out of the world of Greek legends to a nearly empty common room. Besides Justin and Anthony slaving over their Defence Against the Dark Art’s homework, nobody was around.  
Hermione dropped the book back into her bag and stretched, feeling a hundred kinks and knots in her back. Perhaps a hot shower would help sort them out. But just as she stood to act on that idea, Theo sauntered into the room with his robes and scarf draped over an arm and his shirt untucked.  
“Well hullo,” he grinned, “Look who’s returned to the land of the living!”  
Hermione ran a hand across her lightly burning eyes. “Where is everybody?”  
“On the third floor. Some genius charmed all the suits of armour to dance the Furlana. It’s quite a show.”  
“Oh my god!” Hermione gasped as her eyes widened, “Why are we here then? Let’s go!”  
“Nah,” he drawled, and dumped his belongings onto an armchair, “Too crowded. And you’re so tiny, you won’t be able to see anything.”  
“ _Theooooo_ ,” she whined plaintively. She couldn’t get the image out of her head, and she really, really wanted to see it.  
“Come with me. I want to show you something better.”  
Without waiting for her to agree he took hold of her arm and pulled her up the narrow stairway that led to the tip of their tower. It was a tiny room with a conical ceiling and a large, round window. It had recently been assigned the official snogging (and other things) room, and she couldn’t imagine why he was taking her up there.  
“How is this better than dancing armours?” she griped once they’d climbed.  
“Have some patience, will you?”  
He pushed the window open and stepped out onto the ledge.  
“What are you doing?” Hermione shrieked.  
“ _Oi!_ ” he snapped, “Don’t startle me like that! Do you want me to fall off?”  
 “Get back in here!”  
“You come out here!”  
He’d walked off somewhere, and she, terrified to her core, peeked out the window and saw him sitting comfortably on the ledge, with his legs hanging down in empty air.  
“Get back here _this instance_.”  
“Calm down, darling,” he chided sweetly, “And join me. The view is spectacular.”  
“It’s the exact same view from inside, without the danger of plummeting to certain death!” Hermione’s voice was shrill with panic.  
Unperturbed, Theo shook his head, “And that makes all the difference, you see? It’s amazing out here. Come on.”  
“Not a chance in hell.”  
“You won’t fall, Hermione,” he said with some exasperation, “This ledge is wide enough for a hippogriff.”  
“No, it isn’t!”  
He laughed, stood up and walked closer, extending his hand out. “Trust me, Hermione. It’s worth it.”  
“I – no. I can’t.”  
And although those were the words that came out of her mouth, her hand reached out and took his of its own accord.  
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” she hyperventilated as he drew her out and, (“ _oh shit,_ ”) once she was standing on the ledge, she scurried into his arms and looked anywhere but down.  
“That’s it,” he cooed, “Good girl. Now let’s sit down, shall we? Easy, see?”  
She felt a bit better once there was solid stone under her arse, and she hugged her legs to her chest, so that they weren’t dangling above an enormous drop.  
“Open your eyes, you goose.”  
“I can’t.”  
“ _Hermione_.”

She counted to five in her head with her eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then she let them open. The first thing she thought of was Monet’s _San Giorgio Maggiore At Dusk_. A scorching, speckled gradient of primary colours wrapped around her. The lake reflected the sky perfectly, and nothing else existed in that psychedelic wonderland.  
While Hermione stared out in awe, Theo lay back against the slanting roof with his arms tucked behind his head. They didn’t need words to validate the scenery or the moment. But it wasn’t long before they were interrupted.

  
“Are you insane?”  
Malfoy and Ginny were standing at the window looking scandalised.  
“Only a little,” Theo responded glibly.  
“I’ve been looking for you for ages!” Ginny keened, “And you’re sitting... here. Wait.” She gaped at Theo. “How did you manage to get Hermione out there!”  
“I’m very persuasive. And even if I wasn’t, Hermione follows my every command.”  
“Did you need something?” Hermione asked after she’d whacked Theo on the arm.  
“Well... yeah. But it doesn’t matter now. Supper’s nearly over.”  
“Oh.”  
“Why are you even out there?” Malfoy asked with his patented sneer.  
“The view,” Hermione and Theo said at the same time.  
“You know the view’s the same from inside here, don’t you?”  
While Hermione looked away, Theo chuckled. “Hmm... I think I’ve heard that before.”

  
Getting back inside was no less terrifying. Her legs shook precariously as she stood, and she kept both her hands pressed against the roof as she scuttled towards the window. Theo’s reassuring hand on her back did little to calm her. Just as she was stepping in, her foot got caught on the window frame and she tripped. Her arms reached out automatically as a startled squeak tore out of her, and she grabbed onto whatever she could manage to find.  
It took her a mortifyingly long time to realise that the thing she’d grabbed was Malfoy. One hand on his chest, the other at his waist, the blank white expanse of his shirt flooding her vision – she was disturbingly close to him. Pushing away hastily, she muttered an apology, hating how hot her face felt. He was _Malfoy With An Arched Brow_ again, and he didn’t tell her it was okay, or that it was no big deal, or ask her if her foot was throbbing in pain or not, (it was.) He merely dusted the wrinkles off his shirt and turned away to watch Theo, who looked quite frazzled, leap in through the window.  
“Shit, Hermione, are you all right?”  
“Fine,” she mumbled.  
“Can we go back down before people think we’re up to all sorts of naughtiness here?” Ginny enquired impishly.  
Malfoy made a terrible face, and was the first to charge out of the room.

 

* * *

 

September slipped away like a raindrop dripping down a frosted pane of glass, and soon enough, the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness was upon them. Caught in the whirlwind of her timetable, Hermione went from day to day with her old vigour.

 

*

 

With her charms textbook in one hand, and the dead weight of Bellatrix’s wand in the other, she stood in the middle of the common room, trying to figure out how to undo Neville’s disastrous atmospheric charm, even as hot desert wind blistered all around her. No matter how many times she tried it,  _Meteolojinx Recanto_ just didn’t seem to do it. Even _finite_ didn’t work.  
“Seriously Longbottom, you’re the biggest twat that ever lived,” Zabini growled, pulling his sweat-damp shirt away from his skin.  
“I said I’m sorry!” Neville cried, “It’s not like I did it deliberately!”  
“Hello a – _ah!_ Holy fuck, what happened here?” Dean, who’d just walked in gaped at the sand dunes around him with shock.  
“Neville,” the entire room chanted.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks after her birthday, she was back in the Three Broomsticks with Harry and Ron, and this time they’d brought George along. He looked well, Hermione thought, dressed in smart purple robes. His gold ear had a small fanged earring dangling from it.  
“Present from Bill,” he said with a grin.  
They mostly just engaged in small talk, light and pleasant, and they ate enormous amounts of food. George had more luck with Rosmerta than Ron had ever managed – she giggled at all of his jokes.  The resulting scowl on Ron’s face was so endearing that she couldn’t help but grin at him. And to her astonishment and great relief, he smiled back.

She returned to the castle alone – Harry had dragged Ginny away for some alone time not long after they’d eaten. The pathway was littered with fallen leaves, and the air smelt crisp and earthy after a hard spell of rain. With a full belly and a fuller heart, Hermione thought about the letter she would write to her parents when she got back to her room.

* * *

 

“You there! Young scholar! Are you ready to delve into the arcane depths of runic lore?” Hermione giggled at Theo’s subsequent groan, and pushed a fresh sheet of parchment towards him. “Chin up, lad. We’ve been looking forward to this all week!”  
“ _You’ve_ been looking forward to this all week. And stop it. Stop being so cheerful. I like my Hermione all sullen and surly.”  
“When am I _ever_ sullen and surly?”  
Theo blinked at her in surprise. “You’re always surly.”  
“What rubbish.” She grinned as she opened _Spellman’s Syllabary_ , and Theo groaned again.  
“Well, then,” Hermione began with relish, “We should begin with the–”

  
“Theo!”  
They both jumped as Malfoy entered the room with his usual aura of grating entitlement.  
“Yeah?”  
“Get up. We’re going flying.”  
“Er–”  
“Have you looked outside? The sun’s out. Fuck knows when that’ll happen again.”  
“Not a good time, Draco –”  
“Get your arse moving!”  
“Theo is working on his ancient runes assignment right now,” Hermione spoke up in a clipped manner.  
Malfoy didn’t even bother looking at her. “You can work on that later, it isn’t going anywhere.”  
“Look Draco, we planned this a week ago.”  
“You _planned_ to do your homework a week in advance?” Malfoy was obviously appalled. “What on earth have you become? Good grief, just put it off for an hour.”  
“We will not be putting anything off for your sake, Malfoy,” Hermione seethed, “We’re trying to work here, please go away.”  
Finally, _finally_ he deigned to look her way. It was a disdainful look, but that didn’t matter. She matched his scorn with her own, and then some.  
“Stop trying to turn Theo into an unendurable bore like yourself.”  
“ _Draco!_ ”  
“Sod off, Malfoy. Maybe he’d actually rather do his work than spend an hour mindlessly flying around with you.”  
“No one remotely sane would enjoy being harped at by a painful swot who –”  
“I’m sure being _harped at_ is better than listening to an egomaniac go on about how expensive his broom is and how _finely he doth fly–_ ”  
“What are you – _argh_! Let’s just ask him what he prefers then?”  
“Fine!”  
“Yeah! Theo?”

Hermione and Malfoy looked at the boy who’d sunk deep into the back of his armchair, and had a fist pressed against his mouth. His eyes betrayed his panic.  
“Well?!” Hermione demanded.  
He straightened his back slowly while uncovering his mouth, and then said, “ _Ahem_.”  
“Just tell this raging bint that you want to fly and let’s get the hell out of here!”  
Hermione spoke through her teeth, “ _Or,_ you tell that obnoxious prat that you’d prefer to get some work done, and tell him to get lost.”  
“Um.”  
“ _Theo!”_ Both Hermione and Malfoy exclaimed his name with frustration.  
He sighed, looking absolutely wretched, and turned mournful eyes towards Malfoy. “See, we’d planned this a week ago–”  
“Fine.”  
“Wait – Draco – _hey!_ ”

Hermione watched Malfoy storm away with not-so-quiet satisfaction, only just stopping herself from patting Theo on the back and saying, “Good choice.” But Theo didn’t stop staring at the door Malfoy had just disappeared behind. His brow was furrowed and he was chewing his tongue, and alarm bells went off in Hermione’s head.  
“Is everything all right?”  
“He likes to fly when he’s upset.”  
“Okay?”  
Theo sighed and shot her a helpless glance. “It’s how he stems a meltdown. He flies. If he was being so insistent, it probably means things must be quite... quite bad.”  
She let that sink in, biting down on her lip as she felt a pang of sympathy, followed by irritation at that pang for popping up.  
“Just go,” she sighed, and turned back to her book.  
“Wha – But – I’m here, I–”  
“Theo. Just go. He obviously needs you right now.”  
She could sense him watching her, so she subtly shook her hair forward.  
“Will you be alright?”  
“I’ll be fine,” she rolled her eyes, “I have my runes. I’ll be just perfect.”  
“Are you _sure_ you don’t mind? Are you absolu-u-u-u-tely sure you aren’t angry?”  
“Oh, for god’s sake –”  
“I mean... you were so furious before.”  
She shrugged. “He brings out the worst in me.”  
“Hm.”  
Theo continued to watch her; seconds went by and he didn’t stop.  
“Why won’t you leave?” she moaned, rubbing her face wearily.  
“I’m going,” he mumbled.  
He stood up, ruffled her hair, and left.

 

* * *

 

It happened again four days later.

Hermione’s temper was the kind of storm that Shakespeare would’ve interpreted as an omen of doom. She stomped her feet against the ground as she marched towards the common room. Electricity crackled through her hair and buzzed in her ears.  
She threw open the common room door hard enough for it to slam against the wall, and growled like a feral jungle cat:  
“THEODORE!”

He was playing chess with Malfoy and fell off his chair at her call.  
“Fucking Salazar!” he clutched at his chest, “Hermione? What the – _oh!_ Oh shit!”  
“Remembered me, have you?” she fumed.  
“Damn it, I’m so sorry! I –”  
“An hour and a half! I waited for you for an _hour and a half_ in the library, and you’re here faffing about with this idiot!”  
“Hold on a second! How dare –”  
“I am so, so sorry!” he approached her with desperate contrition smeared all over his face, “I genuinely lost track of the time! Please believe me, I fully intended to show up!”  
“ _An hour and a half_ –”  
“Let me make it up to you!” he pleaded, “We won’t leave the library until we’ve finished the whole project, alright?”  
“Excuse me,” Malfoy piped up indignantly, “We’re in the middle of a game!”  
“We’ll finish it later, Draco,” Theo replied quickly, “Shall we, Hermione?”  
She took a calming breath and nodded, but Malfoy shot all her calm to hell.  
“We won’t be able to finish it later! Someone or the other will grab the board soon enough –”  
“Keep an eye on it then!”  
“You want me to sit here like a bloody chump while you take Merlin knows how long finishing up your project?”  
“Don’t be difficult, Draco!” Theo beseeched.  
“If anyone’s _difficult_ here, it’s that deranged fucking cow you insist on keeping around –”  
“Shut up –”  
“ _What_ did you just call me?”  
“I called you a deranged cow, Granger.” Malfoy eyed her derisively. “When will you realise that you were a mere substitute while I had – er – other things to deal with?”  
Hermione’s storm burst forth again, more dangerous than ever. “ _Other things_? Ha! Is that what you call your little assassination plot?”  
“Fuck off. No, seriously, fuck off. Theo’s a soft-hearted chap, so he’s still letting you hang around. But its better you realise that he prefers spending time with his _real_ friend who isn’t a dreadful wet blanket–”

She knew he was just running his mouth. She knew that Theo was shouting at him for doing so. She knew that she should spare him no more than a rude gesture and walk away. But her storm had reached its pinnacle. It swelled and howled and suffused her soul... and suddenly she was fourteen years old again, charging towards that same smirking face with her hand raised –

Theo caught her around the waist with one arm, lifted her off the ground and carried her away. She thrashed and flailed and ordered him to put her down but of course he didn’t listen. All the while, Malfoy’s acerbic laughter coiled around her constrictingly.  
He carried her till they were at the staircase, and when he did put her down, he kept a firm hold on her as though worried that she’d bolt right back.  
“Breathe.”  
She glowered instead.  
“I’m so sorry,” he sighed.  
“ _I’m_ sorry. How are you friends with someone so horrible? How do you stand to be around him?”  
Theo ran a hand across his brow dejectedly. “It seems that... you bring out the worst in him, too.”  
“His worst his worse than my worst!” she burst out furiously.  
 A surprised chuckle bubbled out of him. “My, that’s quite a tongue-twister.”  
“ _Gah_ ,” she spat, “He’s an absolute shit. I wish you’d let me –”  
“Absolutely not. The last time you slapped him, I had to hear about it for _months._ ” Keeping his arm around her, he began leading her downstairs. “So I had to stop you, for the sake of my sanity. Not because I don’t think he deserve it.”

They didn’t talk the rest of the way, until they were seated on their table in the corner of the library. Hermione’s anger hadn’t faded yet, but she could feel something else simmering underneath it. Something that lodged a pre-emptive lump in her throat.  
“I really shouldn’t have any need to say this,” Theo said, interrupting her chaotic feelings, “But you know that he was talking utter bullshit, right? I don’t want you to have another... episode... where you decide to run off and not talk to me, and I have to hunt you down, and then there’s such a _fuss,_ and I have to get seriously angry, and you end up crying, and –”  
“Shut it.”  
“I just need to make sure –”  
“Theo. I know.”  
“Okay, good.”

She did know, but that didn’t mean she didn’t resent the fact that she had to compete for Theo’s time. Time that was scarce; schoolwork and Luna took up most of it. God help her, but for a second – just a second, mind you – she thought things were better when Malfoy was busy with _other things._

 

“I’ll get him to apologise to you.”  
“Oh, please don’t. If I have to be a part of _one more_ apology scene with Malfoy, I’ll explode. Then you’ll have to gather all the little fragments of my brilliant brain spattered about.”  
“Brilliant brain?” he laughed.  
“You know it’s true,” she shrugged, “No more apologies, okay? Just live with the hand you’ve been dealt. You’re doomed to be best friends with two people who will forever snipe at each other.”  
“Hm.”

 

* * *

 

And again, eight days later.

Up until that day, Malfoy had gone back to stonily ignoring Hermione, while Theo treated him with icy aloofness. She’d spent most of her time researching for a potion’s assignment with Padma, Tracy, and Michael, but the time had come for her to put that research into practice.  
She skipped down the stairs from the dorms as she wrapped a scarf around her neck. In the common room, Theo was standing rather vacantly with his bag on his back.  
“Hello!” she sang, and he smiled. “Would you like to accompany me to forage for asphodel in the forest?”  
Out from behind the sofa, Malfoy popped. “Theo and I are going to the library.”  
Hermione huffed while she tried to recover from the mild heart-attack he’d given her. “Were you actually hiding there, waiting for an opportune moment to –”  
“Don’t be daft,” he frowned, “I’d dropped my quill-case.” He made quite a show of shoving the case into his bag.  
Theo turned to Hermione. “Would you like to join–”  
“No!” Hermione and Malfoy yelped.  
“It’s okay,” she continued tightly, “I really need to collect ingredients for my potion. I’ll... I’ll see you later.”  
She forced herself to smile reassuringly, for Theo looked dreadfully uncomfortable.

It took her half an hour to collect the required number of asphodel blooms, after which, with a basket full of pretty white flowers, she sat on a rock by the lake to watch Buckbeak make wide circuits high in the sky. Hagrid stood close by and chattered on about the hippogriff’s moulting habits. He was very cheerful and very sweet, but Hermione was bored to death.

 

* * *

 


End file.
